Love Enough series
by Frensayce
Summary: What happens when the road to happily ever after reaches a detour? What will it take to find their way back to one another? Future Faberry must come to terms with the fact that their marriage isn't as perfect as they thought.
1. You Better Sit Down, Kids

**Title:** Love Enough series  
**Author:** Frensayce  
**Series Rating: **K through M  
**Pairing:** Rachel/Quinn  
**Spoilers:**Canon through season two; then AU with various aspect of season three.  
**Disclaimers:** Glee is not mine, but this series is.

Quinn sat forward on the couch, elbows on her knees and hands clasped together as she prayed for strength. The big brown eyes in front of her were suspicious, and with good reason, she thought. She shook her head with a rueful half-smile. The girl was curious to a fault and hated not being able to figure things out. Though never lacking for whimsy, she was far too serious for her age and was developing a logical, problem solving mind that Quinn couldn't help but admire. Unfortunately, this was not a problem anyone could suss out.

The crisp rasp of a throat clearing drew Quinn's attention to the two boys sitting at the small brunette's right. They were all brunettes, actually, with heads of thick, glossy hair and frowns on their faces. This was already more difficult than she expected. Not that she ever thought it'd be easy.

"Okay," she began, dropping her hands to her thighs and drying her sweaty palms on her slacks. It was a flawed effort, but it gave her something to do. "First, I want you all to know that I love you. Very much."

She looked into each set of eyes filled with confusion: two pairs of brown, and one almost a golden green. Their owner, a six-foot-tall sixteen-year-old boy, pressed his lips together in a thin line, holding back whatever retort scraped against his tongue. Quinn was impressed. Normally, his cocky-jock attitude and impatient snark would've burst through without hesitation. There was no joy in knowing that this was the first time he took something seriously enough to keep his mouth shut.

"And I know you won't understand this." How could they when even she didn't understand? "But," she continued, hopefully hiding her heartbreak. They didn't need to see how badly she was hurting. "But I have to go away."

Being stared down never sat well with Quinn. Not even when she was a child. No one was ever allowed to intimidate her or make her feel like she was in the wrong or a disappointment, no matter how true it may be. Nevertheless, right now she actually deserved it, so she let it happen and absorbed the disgrace she felt.

The puzzled voice of the younger boy seated in the middle interrupted her pity-party. "Again? Where to now?"

The blonde sighed. "Away," came the gentle answer. It wasn't what they wanted to hear, but it was all she had.

"When you come home?"

Her gaze darted to the big-eyed beauty tucked into the corner of the couch. She looked even littler than before and Quinn's heart broke all over again. She swallowed the lump filling her throat.

She chose her words very carefully. "Not for a long time." It was barely more than a whisper, but it shook the room like a thunderclap. Her eyes darted to the boys before she looked away in shame. The older one understood what she meant. And now he'd hate her.

"Why?"

Her shoulders deflated at the question, and tears welled in her eyes upon seeing the young girl's face twist in incomprehension. Quinn couldn't handle it.

Turning to the boys, she clued them in on what she could see one of them already knew. She still needed to say it, though. They deserved that much. "Your mom and I are separating. I'm moving out."

Silence coiled around them like a hungry python and left little air in the living room. She was dizzy and couldn't breathe under their judgment as she waited for the explosion. It didn't take long.

Ava started crying. More accurately, she was bawling and Quinn saw Rachel's pained eyes staring back at her just as sure as she did last night. She looked so much like her mother. Opening her arms, her chest ached as her daughter dove into them. Ava had only just turned four. She'd be starting pre-kindergarten in the fall and was already ahead of her peers in some ways. Music had taught her how to count a little bit, and Quinn taught her colors and letters. Every now and again she used to hear the little girl humming as she bounced around the house. Ava would huff and say it was "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" like Mama sang, but Quinn was positive the little imp was singing her own version of the alphabet song in her head. In spite of these skills, she knew her baby girl just couldn't understand this.

"Hush, Vee-vee," she cooed, offering what small comfort she could and knowing it would never be enough.

Joshua had shot up out of his seat but thankfully hadn't stormed out as she thought he would. He got that from his mother. Looking at him with new eyes, it seemed her oldest child was too stubborn and valiant to run away from his problems or whatever happened to upset him. She wondered when he'd become so brave, then chastised herself for missing it.

He paced off to her right, avoiding the furniture. His arms hugged his torso and his shoulders shook with quiet rage. Now that trait, that one he got from her. Quinn was horrible at expressing her emotions. In fact, that was the reason this was all happening. She just didn't know how to tell anyone what she was feeling, and showing it… that was pretty hit or miss. Her walls were just too high. Sure, in the beginning of living life outside of Lima she'd been free to be whoever she wanted, love whomever she loved, and do whatever she damn well chose to do. But things change. People change. She'd changed. Now she just felt trapped.

She squished the tiny girl against her and looked past her shoulder at her other son. Daniel was always the hardest to read and Quinn never managed to figure him out. He was guarded—played everything close to his chest and usually without realizing it. Unless provoked, he didn't act out like Josh and he didn't crave the spotlight like their sister. Danny was quiet. Methodical. Observant. As a toddler, if he wasn't following his hero big brother around, he was quietly building with wooden blocks, eventually graduating to Legos as he grew, creating his own worlds.

Quinn had stepped on many a plastic landmine whenever she'd gotten out of bed, fighting off insomnia. How many times had she mentally shouted at him to pick up his toys when she should have been happy that he chose to stay at her bedside? It took her wife pointing out during a hissed late night fight that as a little boy he had kept only his best and favorite pieces in their room, that he built his masterpieces for her, that he did it to be close to his Mommy. It used to drive her insane, but guilt churned in her gut when she thought about all the times he'd asked her play, desperate for her attention, and all the times she'd patted his head and told him she had patient files to catch up on or speeches to prepare as she wandered into her office.

Failure and shame battered her like waves beating against unyielding bluffs. She held out one hand toward him in what she knew was a "too little, too late" attempt of connecting with her son. Go knew if he'd even let her. "C'mere, D." She hadn't called him that in a long while, and he couldn't hide his surprise at hearing it.

Danny broke and launched over the coffee table and into her arms, nearly knocking into Ava. "I'm so sorry, D." She hoped that at thirteen he was old enough to read under her words, but Daniel wasn't too good with that kind of thing.

Because she was sorry. Sorry for everything. For not being there when they needed her, for missing their sports games and recitals, parent-teacher conferences, Saturday morning cartoons, and Sunday breakfasts. Work used to be so important and she let herself be consumed, justifying the time away from her family as what was best. Her work paid for school and pediatrician visits, music lessons, Josh's hockey equipment, Ava's little tykes dance and tumbling classes, and Danny's books and puzzles, his Legos. And after the breakthrough, her absence increased. When her "groundbreaking" articles were published in the medical journals, she'd been offered a huge sum of money to tour the lecture circuit and present at academic conferences all over the world. She closed her eyes, hating herself for taking the money and prestige over her family. This was her own fault.

Quinn stroked his brown curls, desperately trying to memorize how soft they were, and she rocked until Ava's sobs faded into harsh hiccups. Looking to her eldest she was surprised, and not, to find him glaring at her. She'd never seen him so angry, even on the ice.

"Joshy—"

"Don't." He cut her off fiercely. "Don't talk to me like I'm a child."

Nodding, she wanted to shoot back with the reminder that no matter how old or tall he got, he'd always be her child and couldn't talk to her that way, just as her father had told her the one—and only—time she spoke out of turn. God help her, she was terrified of being anything like that man; she was close enough to him as it was. "I'm sorry."

Ava and Daniel settled against her, one child in her lap and the other wrapped under her arm, both cleaved to her. Josh's shoulders dropped with her apology and he flopped back onto the opposite couch, reclaiming his seat. "Why?"

She bit her lip. "Your mom and I," she hesitated. How did she tell her kids that they just stopped working? Stopped trying. "We don't see eye to eye anymore. On a lot of things." Too many things.

The teenager stiffened and his green-gold eyes darted to her face. "Did you…?"

"No." She was firm and resolute in answering a question he was too frightened of asking. "No. I understand that you need to ask, but no, never." That was one similarity she and her father did _not_ share. Her loyalty to her wife was unshakable. "I love her and you all too much to do that."

"But not enough to stay."

"Jesus, Josh." Her hazel eyes turned toward the ceiling, commanding the tears to stay back. Rachel was right above her in their room, likely sitting on their bed and undoubtedly still crying. "Things haven't been right for a long time, and I know you all know that in your own way."

"So fix it!" Joshua's patience ran out. He slammed his fists on his knees and his voice cracked. "Stay," he croaked. "Stay and make it right." Angry tears spilled down his cheeks and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes to quell them.

"It's not that easy. You're old enough to know some things can't be fixed."

"Why?" Ava whispered into her neck. "What broked?"

Quinn's chest seized. She couldn't do this anymore. She didn't have answers and nothing she said would make them feel better. The doctor in her couldn't prescribe anything to ease their pain, and the mother in her couldn't bear to prolong it. She kissed the girl's forehead and tugged the clinging child away. "You gotta let go, Vee-Vee." Another round of sobs burst forth as Quinn extracted herself from her daughter's tiny, desperate grip and stood.

She tentatively crossed to Josh, standing before him awkwardly and so unsure of herself. The young man lurched upward and wrapped his arms about her shoulders, openly crying now and pleading with her. Quinn may have carried him, but he was all Rachel: melodramatic and intense. She hugged him tightly, fondly remembering when he had needed to be on his tip-toes to do this, grubby hands stretched toward her and demanding "uppy"—her little boy who just wanted to be held. She'd never said no to him then. That started later, when she was too busy to see how tall he'd grown. And it had to happen again now.

Quinn leaned up to kiss to his forehead then turned around where Danny stood holding his baby sister. Ava was much too big to be coddled like that, but she let it go. He stared at her, unwavering and tearless, as though daring her to tell him to put Ava down. Quinn recognized that stubborn look: it was hers. She supposed they were more alike than she thought. Walking forward, she placed one hand on Ava's back and the other on Daniel's cheek. His chocolate colored eyes now watered, but didn't overflow. He wasn't a crier. One more thing they had in common. Silently, she prayed he'd grow up to be a stronger, better person than she was.

"I'm still here for you guys, okay?" Her assurance fell on disbelieving ears. She knew exactly what they were thinking: she hadn't been there in the last few years, so why start now? "Right," she swallowed. Kissing their cheeks, she briefly buried her nose in Ava's long hair, doing her best to imprint the smell of the little girl's watermelon shampoo before pulling away. "Well, call if you need me."

The pathetic attempt at placating them sounded terrible even to her own ears. She wished she were better at expressing herself. Better at telling them she loved them more than anything in this world. That she never forgot about them when she was on the road, and that she didn't mean to ignore their family. As a child, she'd gone through the same kind of treatment. Russell Fabray disregarded his daughter once she reached a certain age, only toting her out for social events and parading her around like a porcelain doll, beautiful and untouchable. And so very fragile. At the time she assumed that that's just what parents did, so it was only natural of her to behave the same way with her own children. More than once in the last few months of fighting and fruitless marriage therapy did she wish she had known that she'd emotionally abandoned her babies, doing the exact same thing her father did to her. None of this would be happening if she were half as good a parent or wife as she was a doctor. Regret roiled in the pit of her stomach. If she could go back in time and fix things, have spotted the problems earlier, scheduled longer breaks at home between flights out, or not even leave sometimes, she'd do it in a heartbeat. But time didn't work like that.

Quinn glanced toward the empty staircase, knowing Rachel was just upstairs, so close and so very far away. Sighing, she slung her purse over her shoulder and picked up her duffle bag and well used travel suitcase. She'd get the rest of her things when Rachel took the kids away for the weekend. Time out of the city would be good for them.

Exhausted, she gave her three beautiful children a wan smile. She had no words for saying goodbye except a faint, sniffled, "I love you." Turning around, she reached for the door knob.

"Don't cry, Mommy."

She froze, took a deep breath, forced a cheery façade, and faced them. The boys wouldn't believe it, but it was meant for their sister's benefit. "No, baby. My eyes are just red," she shook her head, thankful her cheeks remained dry as she opened the door. "Mommy's too big to cry."

Without another word, Quinn walked out of the home she was destroying.

She closed the door behind her, taking a moment to blink back insurgent tears before making her way down the stone steps. The Yellowcab idled in front of the townhouse and she tossed her bag in, anxious to get to the hotel and sleep for the next year. For someone so emotionally stunted, this was too much to cope with.

Out of nowhere, a strong hand on her bicep spun her around and a familiar body slammed her against the car. Her wife's wet mouth crashed into hers and she instinctively wove her fingers in thick, brown tresses as lips and tongues met for one last time. It was a harsh, desperate kiss that tasted like regret and broken promises and the salty tears she couldn't hold back any longer. She knew what this was, too. It was Rachel's over the top, last-ditch effort to change her mind. Her dramatics were never more appreciated than right now, but as ineffective as always.

The kiss died out naturally, just like their marriage. Yet still they clung together, too afraid to let go of each other or the last twenty-five years.

"I love you." Rachel's sob-scratched voice held no hope, no persuasion. Just the simple truth that couldn't save them in the end. They didn't know each other anymore. And it was making them miserable.

"I love you, too, Rach."

With a final kiss, Quinn settled into the taxi and Rachel shut the door behind her, her delicate fingertips sliding down the smudged window. The blonde raised her hand, surprising herself by mirroring her soon to be ex-wife's palm against the thick glass. Somehow that was the only goodbye either of them could manage. A listless smile pulled at the corner of Rachel's mouth as more tears dripped from her black eyelashes before she turned around and slowly went inside.

Giving in, Quinn Fabray-Berry cried as the cab merged into the light traffic outside of 244 East 49th Street and took her away from the best thing that ever happened to her. But she didn't look back.


	2. Hate To Sleep Alone

Never before had she been intimidated by a piece of furniture, but looking at the king sized bed sitting in the middle of the room left her rooted in place as she leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and tucked her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, unable to cross the threshold into the bedroom. The giant burgundy comforter was half way to the floor, the matching sheets were rumpled and she could smell the sex and despair from here. Miscellaneous clothes lay haphazardly amongst them next to the rectangular impression left on the bed by that awful, too often employed carry-on suitcase of Quinn's. A faded gray McKinley High Athletics t-shirt, worn away to practically nothing and an excellent candidate for the rag bin, was carelessly tossed on the ground, crumpled and forgotten. No, the metaphor was not lost on her. Metaphors were, after all, very important.

In a moment of tremendous bravery, Rachel stepped into the room and let out a shaky breath. Part of her wanted to fling herself to the mattress and sob, but she was all cried out and too exhausted to do anything but sleep. The kids were in bed; she should be, too.

The kids. God, that was the worst of this mess. They didn't deserve this. Nor did they understand how their parents who had once been so in love and had the best and strangest stories of their courtship—as she liked to call it—full of romance and laughter, could have fallen apart so brutally. Rachel had no real explanation. They grew apart. Become strangers. Forgotten what it really meant to be in love, to be together. Even last night was proof of that.

_Rachel sighed as she sat on her side of the bed, listening to Quinn pull down the suitcase from the top of their closet. She couldn't believe this was happening. They'd been together since they were seventeen years old; they made it through their final year of high school in a close-minded conservative town. They'd survived the tumultuous four years of college spent in different states. They'd powered through living in a tiny apartment in Washington Heights while Quinn attended med school and Rachel was auditioning and performing all over the city. Exhausted, nearly broke, and eating cheap, unhealthy, and non-vegan food because they couldn't afford anything else, they'd persevered and reached their dreams. Together. Even in the worst times they were there for each other, which made the best times even better. She won her first major Broadway role, and after they'd gotten married, Quinn landed a great internship that eventually became a position as an assistant analyst. Things worked out. They were good together. Friends were known to comment on how disgustingly cute they were. And while they'd had some spectacular fights over the years, they saw them through. So why couldn't they get through this? Why weren't they trying harder? _

_The bed dipped as Quinn sat next to her. Timidly, she reached for Rachel's hand and long, slender fingers intertwined with hers, still fitting perfectly. This was so unfair._

"_I hate this," Rachel whispered, afraid to break the stillness of their room. It didn't feel real. She didn't feel real. Just numb._

"_I know. But it was a long time coming."_

_Since before Ava. Rachel bit the inside of her cheek. Having another child to save their marriage was a stupid solution, but she in no way regretted it. She was the one to carry this time around, wanting Quinn to see it as her way of pausing her run on Broadway, her thriving career, in the hope that her wife would take a break from work as well. The plan backfired. Since she didn't have the physical burden of a bowling ball in her uterus to hinder further research, Quinn got more and more involved in her case studies and test tubes. The pregnancy and Ava's subsequent birth granted a small reprieve only from the constant traveling. Dr. Fabray still worked long hours, but she came home each night instead of prior occasions of sleeping at the lab. Yet, deep down, Rachel knew it wouldn't last. Admittedly, even in the very beginning of their relationship a piece of her always expected Quinn to leave. _

"_What are we going to tell the kids?" _

_The blonde sighed and squeezed her hand. "I'll talk to them tomorrow. Try and explain."_

_Explain. There was no explaining. They didn't plan this, and they certainly didn't ask for it. She'd been so happy when Quinn Fabray, M.D. published the innovative findings in her field, and overjoyed that she was finally getting the recognition she deserved. Rachel knew she couldn't stop her wife from leaving on those on-site treatment missions and conference trips, couldn't hold her back not matter how much she wanted to. She spent the better part of the last seven years alone as her esteemed spouse toured the world, famous for her medical discoveries and accomplishments. Quinn didn't fly out as often during the pregnancy, and Rachel believed that she'd stay for good once Ava came. How wrong she was. Their baby girl was barely six months before a London symposium lured the doctor away once more._

_A chill washed over her hand as Quinn let go and stood, heading back to her dresser. She shoved clothes—mostly skirts, some jeans, and t-shirts—into a large duffle bag that sat on the floor. Rachel watched, brown eyes refilling with tears. She was so sick of crying. The blonde zipped the bag and placed it next to the not yet packed carry-on. She offered the brunette a weary, half-hearted smile before grabbing her pillow off the bed and moving toward the door._

"_Where are you going?"_

_Brow arched and clearly confused, Quinn said, "The couch...?"_

_She shook her head. "No you aren't." Her voice was small but determined. She wasn't ready to let go, yet. She'd never be ready. _

_Eying her warily, Quinn slowly approached Rachel, dropping the pillow to its rightful home. She stood between Rachel's now open legs and brushed a few dark strands of hair out of her face. The brunette had been blessed with good genes and didn't look a day over thirty even though she was more than ten years past it. Quinn, on the other hand was only half as lucky. Rachel smiled inwardly. The only thing that showed Quinn's age was the modicum of platinum silver, almost white hair that streaked back from her temples and wove through the rest of her summery blonde locks. She tried dying it when they first started popping up, but Rachel nipped that in the bud. She loved the shimmering hair, and she loved the fine lines at the corners of those hazel eyes even though she knew they came from the stress of traveling and not from the laughter they used to share. Still, it all made Quinn look even more beautiful. And Lord knew the woman was stunning. _

"_What are you smiling at?"_

_Apparently her appreciation couldn't be contained. "You. You're still so gorgeous." She knew this was the last time she'd be able to tell her and a small piece of her died inside._

_Quinn's pale cheeks turned pink and a small smile sneaked out with Rachel's tears. So, she could still make her blush. She hadn't seen that in a long, long time. Rachel leaned her head forward, resting it against a toned, t-shirt covered stomach. She nuzzled into the ancient cotton, breathing in the divine scent of her wife. When she pulled away, a weird Shroud of Turin-like image peered back at her. Her tears and sniffly nose left damp impressions on the thin fabric. Unable to look at it, she tugged up the shirt's hem and drifted her lips over impossibly soft skin._

"_Rach…?" Quinn began._

_Never had she imaged that there would be a "last time" for them, but she recognized the moment for what it was. Rachel pushed Quinn's top up further until the blonde got the hint and took it off. Questioning hazel eyes locked on her own brown gaze. _

"_Give me tonight. Just let me have tonight," she pleaded. _

_The taller woman bit her lip as though weighing the pros and cons of the situation. Soon, she nodded and leaned down to join their mouths in a bittersweet kiss. Tears wet their cheeks as she followed Rachel to the middle of the bed, never losing contact. Then their kisses turned frantic and despairing. _

_Within moments both women were topless and the diva was sliding flannel pajama pants down and off alabaster legs. Everything was skin and heat, and she didn't know if the salt she tasted was from their tears or the glistening sheen of sweat coating their bodies. _

_One final time, they met without pretense. Naked in every way, they made love in near silence. Only gasping moans and hiccupping cries cut through the quiet and when the nimble fingers inside of her hit home, Rachel went rigid and came undone with choked whispers. _

_The slender frame above her shook not with pleasure, but with a pain so unspeakable that all she could do was hold on as tears drenched her neck. Eventually, Quinn calmed and rolled off of Rachel. The brunette merely followed to move on top, nipping and kissing every inch of skin she could reach as she loved her wife's body one last time._

_Not too much later, Quinn came on a whimper and with a fist tangled in dark hair, the other gripping Rachel's hand as if their lives—their very survival—depended on that contact, that physical connection. When Rachel crawled up to meet the hazel eyes she so adored, she saw only closed lids as Quinn released her hand, slipping away. And Rachel died a little more._

"Mama?"

The small voice sliced through Rachel's reverie and she turned to see Ava, clutching tightly to her stuffed Sneetch. Quinn's affinity for Dr. Seuss was charming, and when she gave such an oddly shaped yellow creature to Rachel during their first Hanukkah in New York, she'd fallen even more in love. And since Quinn had taken to calling her "Star Belly" during the nine months she'd carried Ava, they thought it only fitting that their little girl have a Sneetch of her own.

Shaking off the sentimental memory, one of very few in the last couple of years, Rachel cleared her throat and put on a completely believable happy face. She didn't win that Tony for just her voice. Swooping down, she lifted the toddler and balanced her on her hip. "You're supposed to be sleeping, little miss."

Ava just buried her face against Rachel's shoulder in response. The actress bit her lip, debating her next words. She knew Quinn would disapprove, saying that at four years old, Ava should be able to stay in her own bed and not climb into theirs anymore.

With a sigh, she internally berated herself for never voicing her disagreement and saying that once in a while was normal, the boys had done the same thing at that age. Instead she was always carrying Ava up the small staircase and back to her own princess bedroom directly above theirs in order to appease Quinn. But Quinn wasn't here. And wouldn't be again.

Resolved, Rachel kissed the soft brown mane tucked under her chin. "Do you want to sleep in Mama's bed tonight?" Ava nodded and Rachel carried her to the chaise longue in the corner of the room. She kissed her again then began stripping the sheets from the mattress. There was no way she was letting her baby sleep on dirty sheets, tainted in every way imaginable. Briefly, she considered burning the whole bed-set as she dropped them in the hamper.

Clean, crisp ivory linen now covered the bed, and Rachel picked up her already sleeping daughter. Tucking the tiny child in, she changed into pajamas and crawled in bed, cradling her baby. Ava twisted around in her sleep and instinctively found the ends of Rachel's long hair, twirling it in her little fingers as she had so many times before. It was familiar and comforting for them both, but it didn't wall against Rachel's fresh wave of tears. She brushed Ava's feathery locks out of the little girl's face and spotted the gold of her wedding band glinting in the city lights outside the window. She did her best not to wake her daughter as the sobs overtook her.

The weight on her chest when she woke was considerably less than the painful heaviness of grief at the death of her marriage, but still cumbersome. Ava was sprawled out and her tiny, footie-pajama feet were currently resting on Rachel's sternum. It was unpleasant to say the least, and she was mildly surprised to learn what sharp little heels her daughter had. She carefully sat up and surveyed the room, raising an eyebrow at what she saw. Daniel cut diagonally across the king sized mattress, his head next to Ava's as his semi-curled body seemed to unconsciously avoid disturbing Rachel. A snore erupted from the corner and her other eyebrow shot up to meet its mate as she spotted Joshua's lanky form stretched across the chaise, his blanket puddled on the floor from rolling onto his stomach while sleeping. Quinn was going to be so pissed when she found out.

Except…Quinn wasn't going to find out. She would never know that their sons had crept in during the night to feel some kind of familial closeness as their parents' marriage dissevered in half. She wouldn't know that Ava and Daniel had shared the pillow she'd left behind or have firsthand proof that Joshua was indeed far too long to sleep on the claw-footed longue in the corner. No, she'd never know any of this. Because she was gone. Because she walked away.

Anger brewing inside her, Rachel managed to climb out of bed without waking her children. Not that it was a difficult feat. They all slept like Quinn, anyway: practically comatose. Especially Joshua, that boy was worse than the Snorlax Pokémon and Rip Van Winkle combined.

The brunette grabbed a hooded sweatshirt from the bottom drawer of the dresser and moved into the bathroom. She threw on the old hoodie and spotted her reflection. _Columbia_. This was Quinn's. It smelled like her, too. Rapidly blinking her eyes, Rachel refused to cry over a stupid article of clothing just because it belonged to the woman who left her.

She frowned and took it off then went to grab another one—one of hers. Sparing one last glance at the children, she forced herself downstairs to make breakfast. Pancakes wouldn't solve their problems, but they'd fill empty bellies and maybe even make the morning bearable when she explained that the four of them were getting out of the house and leaving the city for a little while.

Besides, it wasn't as though this was the first morning they'd spent without Quinn. As cold and terrible as it was, they were used to it.


	3. Don't Talk To Strangers

Fluffy Flashback!

Rachel Fabray-Berry tapped the end of the ballpoint pen to her closed lips, perusing her shopping list while peripherally keeping an eye on her son as he strutted up and down the grocery aisle with his orange plastic hockey stick. Normally she would have made him leave it in the car, but she was in too good of a mood to wage that war. Quinn was home from a ten-day conference in Madrid, and the boys were overjoyed to spend time with both their mothers. Well, Joshua was overjoyed. At two and a half years old, Daniel was too young to really understand why his mama was walking on air just because his mommy was there with morning kisses and evening cuddles.

The _ratt-a-tatt-tatt_ of Joshua's stick on the metal shopping cart was easily halted by her hand blindly reaching out and catching it on the upstroke. "Careful, sweetie," she warned with a gentle smile. The five-year-old gazed up at her in pure adoration. Though such an energetic child, he was remarkably well-behaved. For her, at least. He and Quinn had their stand offs, but only when she and Rachel were at odds on something. Joshua was always there to take his mama's side no matter what the argument. Crunchy or smooth peanut butter? That boy was all over Jiff's Crunchy blend before Quinn could get a word in edge-wise reminding him that he hated finding whole peanuts in his sandwiches.

The brunette smiled. She loved how during every "fight" with their son Quinn was constantly suppressing a grin, pretending that the upturn of her lips just wasn't there. He, however, was a fierce opponent when he wanted it be, which was usually in the middle of the night. He'd often climb out of his bed and into theirs, burrowing his way under the covers and wedging his tiny body between them thus excluding his mommy from all nighttime cuddles. And while Quinn was just as much as a child when it came to not getting what she wanted, she rarely complained because she was the one Joshua ended waking up on top of, not Rachel. Joshua seemed equally okay with that outcome.

Clenching the pen between her teeth, the five-feet-two-inched diva stood on her tip-toes to reach the final item on her list. Surely putting the Nutella this high up was discriminatory. This is what she had Quinn for, anyway. Sadly, her wife and their younger son were off picking up a package of bacon. Daniel was two, but the boy loved his bacon.

Rachel's fingertips strained to cover the last few centimeters necessary to grasp the small plastic jar of the hazelnut spread, but a large hand came from nowhere and swiped it away. She pivoted on her toe, ready to demand the item that was rightfully hers, and came all too close to a tall, black haired, broad shouldered man with sparkling blue eyes.

"Here," his tone was pleasant enough. She wondered what his vocal range was. She'd guess him to be a baritenor, but she couldn't be sure from only a single word.

"Thank you." Her smile was genuine and friendly as she took the proffered jar. "It's rare, but I'm glad to learn that chivalry isn't completely dead. Especially in New York."

His own smile grew brighter in the fluorescent lighting of the grocery store. "I'd like to think my mother raised me right." He held out his hand. "Hi, I'm Todd."

"Rachel," she greeted in return. He was definitely a baritenor: his low pitch climbed high enough during his introduction. That, or he was nervous for some reason. Nerves played a crucial role in maintaining one's natural timbre.

"A lovely name for a lovely woman."

She was wrong. Chivalry was indeed dead. The brunette sighed inwardly and nodded politely. "Yes, well, thank you again."

Turning back to the cart, she caught her son's narrowed gaze. Joshua did not look happy. His gold-green eyes flashed in a way that reminded her of Quinn's right before the blonde laid into someone. No five-year-old should have that look, but he was nothing if not his mother's son: both were extremely possessive of Rachel. She wondered if that was a learned behavior from being with her day in and day out or if it was gathered through osmosis from stewing inside Quinn for nine months. It could have been genetic, though. Officially they didn't know whose egg Joshua came from, but Rachel could hazard a guess even without those piercing eyes and strong jaw.

"Hey little guy."

The strange man kneeled down in front of her son and Rachel's spine stiffened. Not because she was worried about Joshua, but because she was worried for Todd. She watched tiny fists fasten around the solid plastic of the toy hockey stick. Todd looked up at her, entirely unaware of the potential danger he was in. "He's adorable. But he can't be yours, you're too young." That dazzling grin was back.

The thirty-one-year-old actress did not, in fact, roll her eyes. "No, he's mine." Joshua's corroborating nod went unseen by her would-be suitor.

"Made him yourself, huh?" Without a doubt he thought he was being cute.

"I had help," she deadpanned.

Quinn needed to hurry up with that bacon. She was probably teaching Daniel the necessary pork belly criterions for specific occasions. Bacon with eggs had to be genuine porcine and was cooked on the spectrum of tender to crispy depending on the style of eggs: over-easy required a softer consistency; scrambled demanded crumbly edges but a chewy middle; and "sunny side up" called for nothing less than all out brittle strips of fatback. On top of that, turkey bacon was only acceptable with pancakes, and "facon" was the devil. However, if it was taking her this long she was likely extolling the virtues of bacon bits on salads and the perfect amount of bacon salt for flavoring baked pumpkin seeds during Halloween, too. Secretly she'd been amused by the return of her wife's bacon cravings during her pregnancy with Daniel, but after nearly three years it was getting a little ridiculous.

Rachel saw Todd eyeing her left hand and the absence of her wedding ring, which was hanging from the necklace she hadn't noticed was oh so conveniently tucked into her shirt. She never wore it while performing and today was the first time she'd forgotten to put it back on after a rehearsal. The obvious tan line should have been a clue, though.

"Well, he takes after his mother's good looks."

"Yes," she smirked ironically, thinking of Quinn's loveliness. "He really does."

"I don't like you."

Joshua's defiant voice startled both adults and a still crouched Todd returned his attention to the little boy.

"Joshua, that's not a polite thing to say." The reprimand was purely habitual and he knew she didn't mean it. Not right now, anyway.

"Yeah, Josh." Rachel cringed. Oh, stupid man. "I'm just trying to be friends." His flirty blue eyes darted to her. "Maybe we could all be friends."

Before she had time to warn him, Todd dropped his basket of groceries and was on his ass, gripping his shin in pain.

"Only Mommy calls me that."

Though the confusion was all over his face, Rachel didn't feel like explaining. She didn't feel like scolding her son, either, but she knew she had to. "Joshua, that was not nice at all. What's the rule about hitting people?"

Glowering at the man in front of him, the little boy quoted his other mother's conditions. "Hitting is only allowed on the ice." Then came the unsolicited addendum from his aunty. "Then you can beat the hell out of somebody."

"Joshua!" Santana would be getting yet another phone call about teaching that to her nephew. "You need to apologize right now."

"I'm sorry for saying hell."

She groaned and rubbed her forehead. "Not to me, honey. To the nice man you unnecessarily and rudely struck."

"I'm sorry you're a pansy."

"Joshua!" Santana was never babysitting again.

"What's going on?"

Finally the cavalry arrived. Quinn had probably been lurking around the corner listening to the whole exchange and waiting until her own bugle call echoed in her head.

"This lady's kid just hit me," Todd answered.

A dark blonde eyebrow crept up to Quinn's hairline and she shifted her second in command to her other hip as he clutched the package of bacon in his roly-poly little arms. "Really?" Hazel eyes narrowed at the older boy. "May I ask why you're going around hitting people, young man?"

Rachel leaned forward on the cart's handle bar and propped her chin in her hand, waiting for the scene to unfold.

Joshua squared his shoulders and met his mother's stare head on. "He got close to Mama."

The brunette's gesture was some kind of combination of a shrug of indifference and a nod of confirmation. Quinn opened her mouth to speak but Rachel's steadfast guardian cut her off.

"And he called me Josh. Only you can call me Josh."

Rachel, who'd been watching Todd during dialogue between mother and son, spotted the man's exact moment of realization. It was beautiful. His blue eyes widened and his jaw unhinged. She then took Daniel from Quinn, prying the bacon from his chubby fists and dropping it in the cart. Todd's gaze shot among the four of them like a hummingbird on methamphetamines.

"That doesn't mean you get to hit him. We use our words, Joshy." The blonde placed her hands on Joshua's shoulders and turned him to face the dumbstruck stranger sitting in on the floor. "Now say you're sorry."

"I'm sorry I hit you." Even as he said it, Rachel watched his hands tighten around his impromptu weapon. Todd blanched upon seeing it as well.

"It's okay." The tall man carefully rose to his feet and gathered his groceries, already leaving. "I'm sorry I…yeah. I'm sorry," he apologized before adding, "You have a beautiful family." With a lame wave, he limped away as quickly as he could.

A beat later, Quinn asked, "Think he'll press charges?"

This time Rachel did roll her eyes. "He just got felled by a five-year-old. I think he'll want to hold on to the small amount of dignity he has left."

Her wife shrugged it off and bent down to Joshua's eye level. "It was wrong to hit him, understand?"

Their son nodded. "Yes."

"Good." Quinn held up her palm. "But way to protect your mama."

With matching grins, the two high-fived then bumped fists for good measure.

Rachel closed her eyes and pressed her forehead the curly brown hair of the toddler in her arms. "Love her though I do, I hope you don't take after your mommy." She kissed his plump little cheek and buckled him into the baby seat of the shopping cart before mindlessly handing him the sealed package of bacon strips he was reaching for.

"'Con!" he squealed in delight.

Suddenly behind her, Quinn held out a fist which Daniel immediately bumped, and Rachel could see it was too late for him.

Before she could voice her dismay, smooth hands were at the back of her neck, unclasping and removing the gold chain she wore. The silky skid of her wedding band sliding off the necklace was followed by the sensation of strong arms wrapping around her middle. She glanced down at Joshua's beaming face as he snuggled against her side. Quinn reached for her hand and returned the ring to its rightful home while gentle lips brushed over her ear.

"I like this much better here, don't you?"

"I do," she whispered, knowing she was grinning like an absolute fool in the middle of the canned food and condiment aisle and not caring the littlest bit. She turned her head and the two women shared a sweet kiss reminiscent of their first as an officially, legally married couple. And right then, Rachel Fabray-Berry reaffirmed exactly how she was going to spend the rest of her life: with Quinn—always with Quinn.


	4. Touch And Go

A/N: Mistakes are mine; Glee is not. Takes place three months after Quinn leaves.

* * *

The room was bright, too bright for anyone's standards. Anyone aside from Dr. Steven Coe that is, because, well, it _was_ his office. Quinn leaned back in the white leather chair. All the furniture was white and only added to the blindingly lit space. Even Steve's desk was a white wood. It reminded her of a picket fence, separating him from his clients. Or it would have if he ever sat behind it. Instead he sat in a matching high-backed rocking chair. It was a genuine old school rocker, too, with only a modern cushion he'd toss on it before he'd park his ass and settle in for a session. Considering the hours he must've spent sitting in that antique over the course of his career, she had to respect his stamina and pain tolerance. The amount of time he'd clocked in with her and Rachel alone would've been enough to develop sciatica, but no, the psychiatrist was spry for his age which had to be getting close to sixty. A fifteen-ish year age difference seemed like such a big deal when she was a teenager. However, now that she was past forty, it really wasn't. Except when she thought about Beth. Beth was in her late twenties now — twenty-six this summer — roughly the same age she and Rachel were when they celebrated the positive pregnancy test as the first proof of Joshua's existence.

Shaking her head as if it would expel all thoughts of the familial ties she walked away from, Quinn turned her attention back to her ginger haired therapist. For the first time since she and Rachel originally began seeing him, she realized that he looked a bit like those Giardi triplets, all pale and freckled. And gangly. Steven was definitely gangly. Thankfully he wasn't a damn thing like those hellions. She briefly wondered what became of them, but that just led to thinking about their crazy Aunt Terri and Mr. Schue, then Beth again, and the Schuesters' divorce. Her own divorce.

Steven rested his elbow on the arm of his chair, hand raised to his cheek and holding up his head on a closed fist. When she and Rachel first came to him, Quinn had expected to see a notepad or something in his lap, meticulously cataloging the failure of their relationship and underlining her numerous mistakes and shortcomings. That wasn't the case at all. Steven listened underneath his clients' words for substance instead of superficial facts they doled out during each fifty minute hour. He was good like that.

In fact, Dr. Coe was such a good therapist that still he hadn't responded to the bombshell she'd dropped nearly five minutes ago. She left Rachel. It was by mutual agreement, but still…she'd moved out, gotten herself a simple two bedroom apartment in the West Village, and taken a sabbatical from her career. Rather, she stopped lecturing. Her job was to continue her research, not talk about an antibody she discovered nearly eight years ago and that other people had taken further. She was tired of it and it showed. Be it the graying hair, the permanent circles under her eyes, or the atrophied and soft muscles of her once machine-like physique, the signs were obvious. She was done.

"So," Steven began. "You left Rachel."

He said it so matter-of-factly. Quinn nodded in confirmation, not sure what else to do.

"When?"

"Three months ago."

"How do you feel about that?"

An eye roll and a scoff was how she felt about that. Channeling her sixteen year old self could still frighten the hell out of people, and often did when she got pissy and homesick on her various trips, but that shit just didn't fly with Steve. "I'm depressed, angry, and scared."

The words spilled out in an unaffected monotone. She could say them — like any of the myriad speeches she'd given — but that didn't mean she was invested. Quinn sighed and brought a hand to her face to pinch the bridge of her nose. If this was going to work then she needed to finally open up. And there was no time like the present. Taking a deep breath, she gave it a go. "I fucked up, Steve. Fucked up bad."

"How so?"

Quinn found no judgment in the therapist's blue eyes, not that she really expected to. It was his job to look impassive all day with maybe the occasional smile if one of his regulars made a breakthrough or something, and the man was good at his job. Instead she found only encouragement and patience.

"I took her — took them — for granted. Never appreciated them like I should've, like they deserved. Was never there when they needed me." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Fuck, I abandoned my family…What kind of person does that? Who the fuck does that?" she demanded angrily, not knowing who was supposed to answer that question and not sure she wanted to hear what she already knew.

Russell Fabray.

Russell Fabray was who the fuck does that.

The circumstances were different, but he did the same thing she did except he'd done it over twenty-five years ago. She'd defended his actions back then, when he had kicked her out the door. He did it because she disobeyed. She went against the core principles upon which he raised her. She wasn't the perfect daughter she tried so hard to be — the girl she'd transformed her body to match. She loved her Daddy and spent nine months justifying how he'd treated her. Night after night she'd lie awake rubbing her hand over her lead balloon of a belly to soothe the kicking of tiny feet, convincing herself that once she gave the baby up and lost the disgusting weight her father would welcome her back with open arms.

Then she found out what a lying bastard of a hypocrite he was. Learning that he cheated on and left her mother without a fight, without even wanting to salvage their marriage, sent a newly not-pregnant Quinn into a despondent rage. She got angry. At a lot of things. At giving up her baby. At feeling true unconditional love as a parent for a child and at how easily it seemed Russell could forget it. Beth wasn't ever really hers and never could be, but Quinn was Russell's and he pushed her away. She was his little girl that he tossed aside. And she hated him for it. Still, he had taught her something important: anger doesn't solve anything. Revenge though, revenge is just fun.

So Russell's darling daughter got revenge in the only way she knew how, by being better than the enemy. She reclaimed her body from the baby weight (and then some) and the too many late-night cravings for a Wendy's bacon cheeseburger; she restored herself to the pinnacle of Sue Sylvester's pyramid; she dated both quarterbacks before and after her brief comeback as the head Cheerio and was even a front runner for Prom Queen without wearing the intimidating red and white uniform or the man-child with a relatively decent throwing arm anywhere near her.

All of it left her empty.

Empty because she realized that she hadn't done it to get even with her father or show him that she was perfectly fine without him. But that she'd done it all to win him back. To show him she could be good again. She just wanted Daddy to come home.

He never did, of course. He moved out of Lima with his girlfriend before the divorce was finalized only to leave the woman after six months and relocating again to Toledo where he now enjoyed the quiet but lavish country club lifestyle of a retired bigot. The only reason Quinn knew that, or anything else about him, was because he still talked to her older sister, Frannie, who only shared information via her holiday family newsletters. Frances and she were so far apart in age that they'd never bonded, practically raised as only children. But their father kept up with her family: holidays and birthdays, planned summer vacation getaways or just a surprise Sunday brunch after church. Quinn's nieces were spoiled rotten by their grandfather while her own children had never met the man.

"Why do you think you fucked up, Quinn?"

Steven's voice cut through her internal rant. She raised blurry eyes to meet his and couldn't stop the words from vomiting out of her. "I'm afraid I'm becoming my father."

"Vote Republican lately?"

A surprised laugh left her and she pressed the sleeve cuff of her shirt to her eyes, soaking up the tears. Dr. Coe was definitely worth his fee. He knew exactly what his clients needed and when. Quinn always appreciated when he'd diffused the tension with some kind of quip during the marriage counseling; Rachel, however, was not amused.

Rachel. God, she missed her.

"I'm repeating his mistakes."

His face remained unchanged. Anyone else would have commented about her lack of explanation or given a reassuring nod as a way to make her continue. He didn't. He just sat there. Waiting. Not judging. Wanting to help.

Quinn leaned forward and ran her hands over her face. Confession had always been her least favorite part of Catholicism. It was also the worst part about therapy. The unfortunate truth, however, was that both were necessary for healing. So at the age of forty-two, Quinn Fabray admitted the only real fear she'd ever had in life.

"I'm not good enough for them."

The weakest lift at the corner of her therapist's mouth was the only indication he'd heard her. That was as close to a smile as _Dr. Coe_ would get during a session even though _Steven_ was usually Mr. Sunshiney Cheerful-Smiles. Quinn let out the breath trapped in her lungs.

She just made a break through.

Well, fuck.

"What makes you think you aren't good enough for them?"

The blonde shook her head, staring at the ceiling. If this wasn't going to open up a whole can of giant, people eating komodo dragons she didn't know what would. There were so many answers to that question that she'd have to start at the literal beginning, maybe not that she was an "oops" baby by a significant number of years and a generally unwanted pregnancy, but definitely at the beginning of who she was today. "If we're going to go down this road, Steve-o, you need to know something."

Steven didn't flinch at the nickname even though Quinn knew he hated it. That was the one thing that got under his skin. And she was good at that. Worming her way under people's confident exteriors to find something to pick apart, be it a jab at a physical insecurity, or just a misnomer that someone couldn't stand, the outwardly adult Dr. Fabray was very much capable of regressing to her inhuman and cruel teenaged years, and the broken, miserable existence before that.

"What's that, Quinn?"

"My name isn't Quinn. It's Lucy."

It took a good ten minutes of convincing Dr. Coe that she hadn't gone insane and didn't have Dissociative Identity Disorder. She fielded all of his questions, breezed by his subversive test phrases and attempts to catch her in confusion until he relented and finally listened to her. She was born Lucy Quinn Fabray. She was a pimply, overweight little girl with mousy, brownish red hair and braces. That all went away during the summer before she entered high school. Medication got rid of the acne. Athletics and a slight flirtation with anorexia led to weight loss. Her hair lightened with the more time she spent in the sun, and the braces had to come off anyway. And she did it all on her own. Did it to become what they wanted. The only things she asked her parents for were the nose job, and a new name.

On her fourteenth birthday, Russell and Judy Fabray filed a Legal Name Change request with the probate court. Six weeks later, Lucy was gone and Quinn was issued a new social security card, an altered birth certificate, and a clean slate. Her parents had never been so proud. Her mother paid more attention to her: shopping, girls' nights, lessons on how to be a good wife now that someone would surely want to marry her. Russell was the same way. He took her to a purity ball each summer so she could renew her chastity vow to God, but it was mainly for him to show her off like he used to do with Frannie. Whenever there was a moment in their lives to do so, he'd stand proudly with his arm around her shoulder as he introduced her to his friends and colleagues like she was some kind of trophy before sending her off to sit demurely in a corner while he conversed with the other men about stocks and real estate. He brought her along on random day trips when he had business out of town. He'd give her his credit card and drop her at the malls in Cleveland or Dayton or where ever the hell he had to be that day and instructed her to buy "something pretty."

She regained all the attention from her preschool days that she'd lost as the years passed and the numbers on the scale clicked up. She was happy. They loved her again. She was good enough.

When the pregnancy ruined her hard work, she thought she might die, but she bounced back. She didn't have her Daddy anymore, but she had her mother, her friends, the popularity and status. She was still Quinn Fabray and the prom queen tiara was almost in her grasp. Until Lauren Zizes brought her world down again.

Steven interrupted her. "How did Rachel respond to all of this?"

Quinn laughed mirthlessly. "Apparently she knew all along. Rachel and Lucy were in ballet together. I didn't think she'd recognize Quinn."

"But she did."

"Yes," she nodded. "She said it was my eyes."

She wanted to smile, recalling how she'd unknowingly worn a corsage that her future wife had picked out for her to their Junior Prom, but she couldn't. That was the night she struck Rachel across the face and changed their lives forever. She supposed it was a good thing in the long run; it was why they came to a truce then built a friendship that blossomed into love. Yet here she was and she still hadn't moved on or worked past it. Ironically, when her wife had returned the gesture years later Quinn forgave her in a heartbeat. She wondered if Rachel still remembered her haunted and empty look from that night, remembered the self-hatred and fear that stared back at Quinn from the McKinley bathroom mirrors. The blonde sniffed, knowing the answer to that. "Rachel said she could never forget my eyes."

The rocking chair creaked as Steven shifted, re-crossing his legs. "We've talked in great detail about the antagonistic relationship you two had in high school, especially about what happened during the end of your junior year, but never this. Neither of you brought up your past as Lucy. Why is that?"

She swore he could read minds. They'd told him everything, but only now was she talking about being Lucy. No, not talking about it. Just admitting it.

"Rach told me she never said anything because I obviously wasn't okay with who I was. It was before prom. I was looking for my sweater in the auditorium after a glee number when she approached me. Told me how much she missed her friend. How beautiful she thought Lucy was. And how ugly Quinn could be." Rachel had certainly seen the ugliest sides of her throughout their relationship and before.

Steven just waited, knowing she'd continue when ready.

"I hurt her because I couldn't let her get close enough to see me, you know?" she reminded him and he nodded. "Because I didn't feel worth anything without my looks." She didn't feel worth anything now, either. She also wasn't sure why she was repeating things she'd spoken about before. "But mainly I hurt her because she reminded me of who I was and what I hated about myself. And she knew. Knew all along. But she never said anything until I put on that stupid Lucy Caboosey t-shirt." The only reason Rachel asked Quinn to come with her to the plastic surgeon's office in the first place was to get Quinn to admit she _wasn't_ born that way and that the diva knew it. The whole thing had nothing to do with her broken nose but everything to do with Quinn's inability to accept who she was and who she'd been. She should have suspected something was up. Everyone and their grandmother in Florida knew Rachel Berry loved her nose and how "Streisand" it was.

The two of them sat in silence for a moment. Quinn took the tissue the older man offered and wiped away the tears she didn't realize were falling.

"Rachel's forgiven you for what you did, Quinn," he said softly. "She's said so many times in here and after twenty some years together, building a life, you still don't believe her, do you?"

Biting her lip, Quinn thought hard before answering. "I believe her." She didn't understand it, but she believed it. "She has the biggest heart in the world."

"For such a little person, right?"

She chuckled. "Right." Sniffling, she pressed on, knowing that Steven's joke was his way of making her feel safer and pushing her forward. "_I_ don't forgive me." Not for taking away one of young Rachel Berry's few friends, not for the slushies, name calling, graffiti or sabotage, and certainly not for hitting her. Not for letting herself lose one of the greatest things that she'd ever had, something that belonged to her and her alone. She'd fucked up and Rachel's heart wasn't hers to keep anymore. She'd misplaced it somewhere along the line. Tucked it away thinking she could go back for it at any time because it would always be there when she needed it again, waiting for her in the same spot as always. How naïve and self-centered she'd been. Too caught up in herself to not see she what she was losing because her job offered her world renown and she got to be _Quinn Fabray, M.D.,_ — someone people would love, adore, respect, and idolize, someone Russell Fabray would regret letting go… like she regretted letting go of her own family.

Fucking hell.

She got it now.

Quinn sat ramrod straight and stared at nothing as her mind reeled. How stupid was she to not know that she already had the love she craved — everything she ever wanted in life? That she already had a family who loved her for who she was and didn't need her father anymore. That she had a wife who loved her for all her different selves without fail, who never found her lacking.

A wife who never would have left her.

Sweet Jesus, what the hell had she done?

She never should have walked out that Goddamned door.

"Time's up, Quinn."

She ignored him. "How do I fix this?"

"Get a hobby."

Silence. Then, "You're fucking joking."

The older man stood, stretched his long body. "We both know I'm not that funny." He moved to his mini-fridge in the corner behind his desk and offered her a bottle of water. She glared at him. "Do you have any idea who you are right now, Quinn? Or is it Lucy?" He was pushing. This was new. "Do you know who you are without identifying as a former cheerleader turned pregnancy statistic and failed prom queen? Or as a doctor? Or a wife and mother?"

She didn't answer. She didn't need to.

"Find something for you, something you can do on your own that you genuinely like and hopefully grow to love." He smiled. "You're forty-three — "

"Forty-two," she cut him off.

"Sorry," he apologized with a smirk and held out his hands as he shrugged. "Find something and learn about yourself. Go figure out who you are. Without Rachel, without the kids, without your past, and without that degree and reputation you so enjoy hiding behind." His face softened into a real smile. "You need to fix you before you can even think about mending things with Rachel."

Quinn stood, tearing at the crumpled tissue in her hand. "You think I can? Fix things with her?" Her heart jumped into her throat at the idea that maybe she hadn't screwed up as badly as she thought.

Steven sighed, and she knew what was coming. Instantly her shoulders fell and more tears welled in her eyes. "You can try, Quinn." Then his voice turned sad, "But I honestly don't know."

Her jaw clenched and she gave him a curt nod. "Thanks, Steve-o."

And just like that, Quinn left the harsh, brilliant light of the therapist's office and marched toward the elevator like the woman on a mission she was. She knew one thing: her name was Quinn fucking Fabray-Berry. If she had to discover who in the hell that was to do this, then she had a hobby to find, damn it. Because she was going to try. Because she refused to give up like her father did. Because she was getting her family back.


	5. Living In A House Divided

A/N: The day after Quinn left…

* * *

"_You have arrived at your destination."_

The disembodied electronic voice of the navigation system roused Rachel from her not at all restful nap and she stirred groggily in the passenger seat, thankful that Joshua was driving instead of her. She didn't mean to fall asleep, but the past few days had taken their toll and she was hoping this impromptu "vacation" would help. It was doubtful, though. They all knew they were here only because of what happened yesterday – because Quinn had left. The whole getaway was made worse by the location itself: the rural land of Mountain Dale, NY, just skirting the small town of Fallsburg in the famous Catskills. It was, if the traffic gods blessed travelers with optimal conditions, about two hours west of Manhattan and one of Rachel's favorite places. She'd fallen in love with it during their very first year here and couldn't imagine a more perfect place to spend time with her family. The quaint hamlet hadn't changed in decades. It was like being sucked through a time portal back to the 1950s and so breathtaking that it was hard to believe it was actually in New York state.

She looked to her left, to Joshua sitting in the driver's seat as he steered the family car up the long, winding driveway. She wanted to say something. Anything. But the stony visage she'd been familiar with from her teen years halted any words that could have possibly formed. For the first time, she hated how much he looked like Quinn. He was too beautiful to look so angry and cold.

The woman's sigh was lost to the sound of the opening of the garage door and Daniel's sometimes uncontrollably loud voice exploded from the backseat.

"Look!"

There in the space next to their silver SUV, and already plugged in to the household car charger, was an overpriced luxury sedan – black, sleek, and fully loaded. Originally, Rachel was disgusted by its extravagance. Then she learned that its safety ratings were highest _Car and Driver_ had ever awarded to a vehicle, creating a new standard for automobiles everywhere. And for all its "badassery", she had to give the owner credit for choosing the family edition of the model by getting a sedan. There was no way the Fabray-Berry brood would have fit into it otherwise. It was definitely a wise investment on the part of the buyer.

"_Tia!_"

Well, speak of the Devil.

Joshua turned off the engine with the push of a button while Daniel was unbuckling an excited Ava from her big girl safety seat. The four-year-old crawled over her brother's lap for him to open his door and help her out of the tall SUV. She took off as fast as her little legs could carry her toward the side door of the garage leading into the house.

Caramel colored arms scooped the little girl up into a tight embrace and spun her around a few times before tickling her incessantly and raining down kisses upon her face. Rachel followed her daughter's squeals of delight and rounded the front of the car as Joshua was plugging it in next to his aunt's Lexus and Daniel…Daniel had already wandered off.

"_Tia_ stop!" Ava shouted through a giggle. "I'm gonna pee!"

The tickles halted immediately and the no longer smiling woman quickly put her down. "Not on me you're not." She swatted her niece on the bottom while pointing to the open door. "In you go, _mija_." With another giggle, Ava scurried inside to the bathroom.

Straightening, the slightly taller woman crossed her arms over her surgically enhanced bosom and raised bitchy, nearly black eyes to Rachel's. The mother of three planted both hands on her hips and rolled her shoulders back in her own intimidating pose. Yes, she could be intimidating. When faced with the sight of a pissed off or just extremely determined Rachel Berry, the theatre world of New York City cowered, dropping everything to listen to her. Although, if they knew that Rachel Fabray-Berry couldn't even glare her oldest child out of bed on a school day, she doubted they'd be so apt to address and accommodate the Broadway diva's every whim. However, years of experience had taught her that neither Rachel Berry the acclaimed actress, nor Rachel Fabray-Berry her legally named wifely alter ego, scared the woman before her. Mama Bear Berry, though, Mama Bear Berry scared the living hell out of the high-priced lawyer standing in her garage.

"Lopez," she greeted in a cold tone.

"Berry." The reply was equally chilly.

The showdown lasted only seconds longer until each woman broke out into a soft smile and they met in a tight, comforting embrace. It was exactly the kind of hug Rachel needed, and who better to provide it than her best friend?

"What are you doing here, Tana?" she asked into a mane of ebony hair.

Santana shrugged out of the hug, but didn't step away. "Tellin' me you're not happy to see me, Berry?" Her arms stayed locked around Rachel's middle while the actress kept her own arms looped around her neck.

With anyone else, the pose would have been too intimate. Anyone else but Quinn, that was. With this woman, however, it was different. If sophomore Rachel Berry had her future-self corner her in the halls of McKinley High and tell her not only would she marry Lucy Quinn Fabray, but that she'd find the sister she never had in Santana Lopez, she would have assumed that she never made it to Broadway and instead wound up in a secure and padded cell in Lima's home for the mentally ill. Or she would have just killed herself. It depended on the day the outrageous scenario would hypothetically happen, really.

Time had been unfairly kind to Santana. Her black hair was still thick and lustrous. The smile lines about her mouth no longer seemed so strange, and she was a little curvier in exactly the right places while her deep brown eyes held a sparkle that no one would have ever thought existed within the reformed delinquent. Usually it was hidden beneath layers of what would be expected of a cold, hardened, and often ruthless attorney, but whenever they fell upon Rachel's children, that glimmer was more brilliant than any star in the galaxy.

"I'm always happy to see you." She smiled briefly then glanced at her oldest as he sullenly unloaded the car without any prompting. It was only because their _tia_ was here, and she'd kick his ass for not helping out. "But that doesn't negate my curiosity at your unexpected, but pleasantly surprising presence."

Full lips turned up in a smirk, muttering, "Typical Berry." Santana released her hold and adopted a look of nonchalance. "I was in the neighborhood."

Rachel raised her eyebrows. The "neighborhood" consisted of two other houses on the ridge. One was a year-round residence, the other a holiday rental only property, and each was a mile from the Fabray-Berry "compound", as her friend so dubbed it.

Dark eyes rolled good-naturedly and Santana began walking out into the front yard. As they walked through the lush green grass, Rachel now noticed she was barefoot. Barefoot, and the lawyer was still taller than she stood in shoes. Intellectually, she knew that. But the reminder never failed to make her frown.

"Got the weirdest message last night," Santana began. "A little birdie, and by that I mean the biggest asshole I've ever known in my entire life — and I work in corporate law — mentioned you might be here today." Her hands slid into the pockets of the fitted jeans she wore and she toed the soft ground beneath their feet. "Thought I'd come say hi."

Silence reigned over them as they stood side by side, staring out at the expansive yard but not really seeing any of the gorgeous floras adorning the property. The place was excessive in every way. Quinn had spared no expense in giving her family whatever they needed and the best of what they didn't.

"How did she seem?" The question came unbidden, but it was out there.

Santana snorted indelicately. "Funny thing. It was a straight text message. No voice or video."

They both knew that Quinn's lack of personal communication spoke volumes. Texts weren't normal for her. Even if she only had only seconds to spare, those closest to her always heard her voice at the very least. Quinn was either distancing herself, or hurting.

"So," the darker skinned woman continued. "I thought I'd drop by and see the hellspawn, or something."

Tiny hands tugged at the skirt of her dress, pulling her attention away from the fact that Quinn was trying to take care of them through other people. She wasn't ready to process whatever that meant.

"Mama, look!" Smiling like sunshine, Ava proudly displayed a brand new wand with a star topper and dripping with a rainbow of ribbons. "I found it in my room."

Rachel's brown gaze swept over the little girl's new clothes, too. A pink cape underneath lavender and turquoise butterfly wings, a princess tiara, and a pirate eye patch combined to make quite the ensemble. She shot a look to Santana who conveniently happened to be enthralled by the rolling white clouds above them, then came back to her daughter. "It's a fantastic wand, baby. And I'm absolutely envious of your outfit," she grinned, gently poking the girl in her round belly. "What do you say to your auntie?"

"_¡Gracias, Tia!"_ Once again, Santana had an armful of toddler before Ava wiggled her way free and ran back into the house, surely on her way to annoy her brothers with her new toys.

Santana blushed, but only as much as someone with a such a stunning café-au-late complexion could. "I didn't think she'd put them all on at once." She shook her head with an easy smile. "Never can tell with that one, though."

It was true: Ava was an incredibly unpredictable child.

Not for the first time, Rachel wished that life had turned out differently for her friend. She watched Santana stare after Ava with the biggest smile on her still gorgeous face. If given the chance, Santana would freely surrender the beauty she'd retained during the years, the wealth she'd acquired, the reputation she earned — all of it — for a child of her own. Sometimes life was a complete bastard.

A distraction was needed before the woman picked up on the pity Rachel couldn't help feeling. Santana hated being pitied in general, but especially for that. She took a breath. "Dare I ask what frivolous gifts you've bestowed upon the boys?"

The answering grin was disconcerting. "Da'Maniel has some bad ass new drafting supplies." The grin faded a bit. "I wasn't sure…I didn't know how to organize —"

"He'll take care of it," Rachel cut her off in a moment of her own discomfort.

"Right," the taller woman passed by the topic smoothly. "Anyway, I figured macho-man would want something different. Just a new package of pucks and an early morning call to the groundskeeper to spray the rink with that swanky gliding lube. You might want to put a bump in his next paycheck."

Rachel nodded and meandered around the house into the backyard. Large did not begin to describe it. Their entire lot was just over ten acres and decadent in design. Flowers of all kinds were gathered in separate gardens planted arbitrarily about the yard, a wooden gazebo stood in the far right corner by the massive swimming pool, and the former tennis court jutted out from there, rather far off from where they stood. The court was the first thing Quinn changed. She'd had it demolished and rebuilt into an outdoor hockey rink for Joshua. Synthetic ice had certainly come a long way since they were his age.

The sound of his skates, like knives sharpening on a whetstone, echoed through the yard as he glided across the surface, stick in hand and goalie net stationed at the opposite end of the rink. Of course this would be the first place he went.

The brunette zoned out, recalling when the construction was finally completed and the looks on both of their faces as mother and son stepped onto the artificial ice for the first time, the pure joy glowing in their bright hazel eyes. That was one of the best vacations they'd had up here. Ava was still a gleam in their eyes, but the boys had both mothers for six whole weeks without interruption by Broadway or the WHO or CDC. For six weeks they were a family, and she loved every second of it. Quinn did, too.

"Come back, _niña_." Santana's voice jarred her from her memories, and she was spun around to face her friend. "Those people don't exist anymore, okay? Not one of them," she whispered. "You've all changed."

Sometimes, Santana Lopez knew the exact thing to say, even if it hurt to hear it.

"She didn't want to go, did she?" Rachel's chin quivered in a moment of weakness. The whole morning she'd been strong for the kids, helping them pack, planning a shopping list with their favorite foods. She didn't want to break down again. She couldn't. But she couldn't help the words falling out of her mouth. "All those times. She didn't want to leave."

"No."

"But she always did."

"Yes."

Before she could give in to the pain, a brutal roar erupted from behind them. Startled, both women were instantly running to the back half of the lot.

It was Joshua.

He was beating his hockey stick against the artificial ice like he was wielding an axe to chop wood. Crack after crack reverberated across the property and the surrounding woodlands. He kept at it, bashing the stick into the surface as it chipped and shattered as real ice would, and just as sharp and hard.

The screaming never stopped. Shouting and yelling, he cried out as Rachel tore across literally acres of land to reach him, her dress whipping at her legs. She saw the long, blunt instrument swinging down with unchecked rage until it smashed and pieces splintered across the rink. Joshua never stopped, though, determined to destroy what was left of it in his hand.

She ran to her son, not caring about maybe slipping and falling or the dangerously real possibility that he could accidentally hit her on the back swing. Her hands landed on his shoulders and turned him around. Recognition surfaced in his eyes, nearly jade from anger, and he dropped the stick and crumpled into her. The teen's weight dragged both of them to the ground as he buried his face in the crook of her neck and sobbed. She held on, petting soft chestnut hair as her not so little boy broke down in her arms.

She glanced back to spot Santana walking away, guiding an out of breath Daniel back toward the house with Ava balanced on her hip. Just because the land was huge didn't mean it was impossible to hear their brother, but God how she found herself wishing otherwise.

"I hate her!"

Joshua's rough and manly voice cracked as though he were thirteen again.

"I HATE HER! I HATE HER! I HATE HER!"

Over and over he cried out and Rachel waited, occasionally kissing the top of his head and ignoring her own tears or the dampening fabric clinging to her skin as he soaked through the simple cotton sundress. Pleading to whatever higher power might be listening, Rachel begged with her entire being that she could absorb his pain as easily as her clothing took his tears.

"You don't hate her, honey," she soothed.

"Yes I do!" he choked. "I hate her so much!"

"Tell me why."

He pulled back and his red rimmed eyes broke her heart all over again. "She hurt you! She hurt you and I hate her. And I hate that I couldn't stop it." Returning to the cradle of her arms, Joshua needlessly apologized. "Mama, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't stop it." He didn't see the shock and shame written across his mother's face.

Rachel had nothing. What could she say? What words might possibly make this better? He'd always been protective of her, always been _her_ boy, and now he was angry and hurting on her behalf on top of his own pain. He wrongly blamed himself, and the burden of guilt she felt at that knowledge crushed her. Salt stung her eyes and her lids closed to keep the flood of ashamed tears at bay.

"You didn't do anything wrong, sweetheart. None of this is your fault."

He whined and entombed himself further into her embrace. Familiar songs sprung to mind from nowhere. Songs Quinn used to sing while their son grew inside of her. Then there was the small tune she'd teased Quinn for even knowing because Andrew Lloyd Weber just never seemed the blonde's style. A song they used to sing when storms came and thunder shook their home. Much like it was now.

"Try," her own voice scratched against her throat but she pushed past it, considerably slowing the original tempo like always. "Try not to get worried…" The melody disappeared, leaving her to merely whisper the lyrics that hurt too much to sing. "Try not to turn on to problems that upset you, oh." She kissed his hair again, rocking him as her knees ached and her arms cramped. She never let go though, never loosened her hold. "Don't you know everything's all right?" Joshua sniffled and shook his head against her. "Yes," she nodded reassuringly, but was still so very uncertain herself. She had no idea where they were all going to end up or how they would even begin working through this.

So she took a shuddering breath and, like the good mother she was, Rachel Fabray-Berry lied to her son. "Everything's fine."


	6. Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

It was raining. Still. Bad weather had plagued the East Coast all week and to say Quinn was sick of it was and understatement of gargantuan proportions. Black skies during the middle of the afternoon was not her idea of a nice summer day. It was past nine o'clock now. Night had settled in bringing rain so heavy that _New Yorkers_ were pulling over to the sides of the roads because they couldn't see two feet in front of them. No one could. Everyone walked with their heads down and shoulders hunched up to avoid the bullet-like drops of water.

Her feet were soaked. Sure, she'd prepared for the weather by wearing a pair of calf-high Wellington rainboots over her regular shoes, but it didn't help. Puddles were too deep, and splashes too high. The night was cold and wet and all-around nasty. Not the kind of forecast one expected for mid-August.

A hard crack of thunder made her jump and the downpour turned violent. She needed to get out of this. She was too far from her apartment to walk and there were no taxis to be had roaming the streets. Spotting an awning up ahead, she ran as best she could and huddled underneath it. Her umbrella collapsed with the push of a button as another boom rocked through the atmosphere, frightening her just a little.

Josh must be terrified.

Quinn sighed sadly at the thought of her son, though her sorrow was overrun by worry. Straight from the womb, that boy was petrified by thunderstorms and tornadoes. New York wasn't popular for the latter, but God help them all if one appeared anywhere in Ohio when they were visiting their grandparents in Lima. Thunderstorms on the other hand were far more common now thanks to global climate changes.

Like any sixteen-year-old boy, he always put on a brave face and shrugged it off whenever asked if he was okay. But she knew better. He hid it well enough, but not from her. Because she did the same thing. It was like looking in a mirror sometimes and was more than easy to spot the nuances of his fear slipping through the façade.

Daniel was worse, though. And his _condition _(as Rachel liked to call it) certainly didn't help matters. Research, knowledge and perceptions about Autism and Aspergers were constantly updating and they no longer existed silently in the background of society. Yet Rachel could barely say it out loud, let alone adjust to his behavior. No. That was Quinn's job since, after all, she was the one who spotted their son's differences.

When he was in daycare — and later, preschool — she had to leave work on multiple occasions to pick him up during a storm. Rachel couldn't leave rehearsals, but it was a moot point: Quinn was the only one who could deal with him when he got like that. Thankfully, Santana asked to learn how to do the same when Quinn's trips away became more and more frequent. The woman was a life saver and the only person outside of Rachel she trusted with the children.

So many times an administrative representative would contact Quinn and she'd be out the door in seconds to get her little boy. Danny would react so strongly and sometimes violently that the school couldn't manage him other than restricting the otherwise sweet and gentle boy in a safety hold until he calmed to a nearly catatonic state. She didn't blame them, either. When that happened, it was basically all anyone could do. And every time she'd had to do it, it destroyed a piece of her. As he got older, and taller than all his classmates, he was harder to control. So by the time Danny was in second grade, she had a weather ap constantly running in her office at NYU that updated itself every ten minutes. There were some days when she didn't answer those school calls because she was already in the car on her way to The Manhattan Childrens Center on the Upper West Side to get him before they were forced to the last resort of restraining her son.

Automatically, the concerned mother reached for her _Morph_. Some types of technology moved too fast for her and she was still figuring out the new phone/tablet/iPod/gaming device/catch-all. Normally, Daniel would decipher her latest gadgets then show her how to work them… She hoped he was all right. She hoped Joshua was okay enough to react appropriately in case something happened. And she prayed that Ava was sleeping through this.

A frown pulled at the corners of her mouth. There were no messages. This was the first major storm since she moved out five months ago, and she instinctively was searching for Josh's texts. Yet, nothing. Disappointment and rejection warred within her. Perhaps she should be relieved they were growing up. Every storm, they went to her. She'd sing and hold her sons who tried to crawl inside her skin to get away from the big noises and scary lights. She'd played with Josh's shaggy brown hair as while pressing Daniel's ear to her chest and covering her hand over the other to muffle the sound of "clouds bumping together" as they all sat on the couch and watched movies. And last year, she'd stayed on Skype with them both until the storm passed by, even though it was nearly five in the morning in Tokyo and she had a lecture to give at nine.

They didn't talk much then. She watched and sat with them while Josh distracted himself with a book and occasionally commented on it, and Daniel huddled over his drafting table, drawing up blueprints and chattering away excitedly about the latest model he was going to build. He would go off on tangents about his favorite things, and architecture topped that list. No, he didn't know the social signals when other people weren't following him, or at all interested, and looking for a way out of the conversation. But he was sweet and gracious when they made excuses to walk away or tried to change the topic because he didn't understand that was what they were doing. Which is why his response to storms was so strange and shocking. That night wasn't like that, though. Quinn followed his rapid-fire speech easily enough and giggled when he told her matter-of-factly she was yawning an awful lot because he couldn't recognize she was exhausted.

Sleep had been the last thing on her mind, though. She just needed to hear the boys' voices and know that they were okay just as much as they needed to hear hers to feel better.

The blank screen of her _Morph_ mocked her. Inbox: empty. Maybe they didn't need their mommy anymore.

Unable to stop herself, she opened a new message window and bit her lip as she debated whether or not to text Josh. What would she say? He refused to speak to her whenever she called in the recent months, why would today be any different? If she asked how he or Daniel was — and _if _he responded — he'd pull the macho card and pretend everything was fine. There was nothing for her to do except type one word. The single word she and Josh stumbled on to replace the three words the then fifteen-year-old was too cool to say to his _mom_ (because he was too cool to call her Mommy, too), yet had no problem hollering at his mama. Often. And in public.

Five letters. Five letters to sum up and communicate just how much she loved him and how much she missed him. Water fell on the screen of the device, and it wasn't the rain. The pain of knowing her oldest son didn't want anything to do with her was crushing, but not enough to squash her hope that he might show her mercy and let her back in his life like Daniel cautiously was, like Ava did with wide open little girl arms ready for hugs.

She pressed SEND, and electronic waves bounced off satellites to carry her message onward.

The popping and snapping of hail the size of ping-pong balls scattering the streets and denting cars demanded her attention. The awning was catching them like a net and it began to dip with the weight of the bruising spheres. Shoving her phone in her pocket, Quinn considered her options: stay and see if the awning gives, or make a break for the subway entrance two blocks over? The gleam of a neon sign across the street was like a lighthouse in rough seas. She grinned then evaluated the distance and how quick she'd have to run.

Thanks to therapy with Dr. Get-A-Hobby-You'll-Feel-Better, the forty-two-year-old was working out six days a week. The amazing part was not that she was miraculously well on the way to returning to her high school weight and fitness level, or how much better she actually did feel, but that she hadn't killed Dr. Coe for his stupid, smug grin at being proven right. Steve-o could go fuck himself sometimes.

Another round of thunder made the decision for her, and Quinn took off running through the hazardous elements and the swerving cars. She didn't bother using the umbrella for protection because she knew it'd just slow her down. Jumping up on the curb, just narrowly missing a parking meter, she barreled through the door of her new sanctuary. Thank God for the world's addiction to coffee and all fine establishments everywhere that served the blessed beverage.

The old-fashioned bell dinged with both the opening and closing of the door. The place was empty and very few lights were on. She shrugged off her long raincoat, hanging it on an antique upright coat rack, complete with an umbrella stand. Quaint. She shook her head and tugged off her Wellies, grimacing because they'd been a bust: her feet were encased in a soggy pair of thin sneakers and thinner socks. One would think the doctor would know better, especially a virologist whose whole career was about preventing illnesses, but one would be wrong. Genius, Dr. Fabray, real smart.

Shivering, the blonde straightened and took a good look about her. The coffee shop was decently sized and had small, square tables with four chairs sitting at each. Under her feet was a checkerboard patterned floor of black and white tiles that had yellowed with age. The ceiling was a drop-in made from copper tin that reflected the glow of the few hanging light fixtures, adding just a little more luminescence to the space. Drab gray walls — that were maybe black and faded over time — were decorated with all kinds of different artwork.

Reproductions of world famous works hung next to everything from obviously original, detailed oil paintings to hastily etched doodles on napkins that had been tacked up with tape or bubblegum, as was the case with the current masterpiece she was staring at. She chuckled and moved on. Photographs, prints, sketches, lithographs and reliefs, pastels and watercolors lined the walls and each table had some kind of small sculpture on it. One was a wire figure balancing on one foot. Another was a scarily realistic human heart made of wax.

The whole shop was a living gallery, and her spine tingled with delight and an excitement she'd forgotten. It'd been twenty years since her art classes as an undergrad. The pre-med program was beyond stressful so her advisor suggested she find something fun as a means of relaxing. She allowed herself one course every semester, but often sneaked into the studios when she found rare moments of downtime. A few times she sat in on other classes, too, desperate to absorb as much as she could since her four years of art at McKinley were a waste. Mrs. Fraiberg's hungover mumbles and arbitrary assignments didn't do anything for her; Quinn basically taught herself in those classes.

"We're closed."

The blonde may have yelped at the manly voice behind her, but she recovered admirably. She turned and came face to face with a man of about twenty or so. He was shorter than her by a good three inches and had a bulky frame. Not chubby, but stocky and solid like a bodybuilder. His eyes were a muddy brown, and his square jaw reminded her of the wooden meat mallet her mother used to pound steaks with to soften them before grilling. He looked like a bouncer at a dance club. Maybe that was his night job, seeing as this place was closed so early. Although, that was more likely due to the horrid conditions outside.

The only thing that didn't fit was his hair. It was green. Very green. Not a shocking lime, or dull olive shade, either. He was sporting a head of thick, emerald hair that spiked out as if he'd been electrically shocked. It was sort of cute.

She held back her smile. It wasn't like she had much room to talk, she'd dyed her hair pink in her own act of teenage rebellion. However, the man in front of her, while young, surely was too old for that.

Finished appraising him, her salon perfected eyebrow arched and Quinn glanced at the still very much blinking _OPEN_ sign in the window. "Closed, huh?"

The little man with the plumy helmet of green hair nodded and just became a Martian in her eyes. She wanted to call him Marvin but knew he was too young to get the reference.

"Marvin" huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah. Closed."

"Your light's on. And the door's unlocked." Logic weighed in her favor.

A muscle in the spaceman's jaw ticked and he kind of pouted. Quinn pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. This guy was just adorable. She wanted to pinch those reddening cheeks and ruffle his hair. He probably wasn't the type of person who'd be okay with that. She sensed boundary issues.

"I didn't get that far."

She chuckled. "Isn't that what you should do first when closing?"

Itty bitty Gumby became as spiky as his hair. "_My_ business is none of _your_ business. And my business is closed, so you need to leave." He tacked on a "please" through gritted teeth.

"All right, Greedo, give me a minute." Hazel eyes watched the man grow like a puffer fish. Or the Hulk. Shit. She really should have seen that resemblance earlier.

"Guido?" he roared in a surprisingly powerful voice. Mr. Universe's steroids must be doing their job. "Did you just call me "Guido"?" He was really offended. Damn. Hopefully 'roid rage was not on its way. Time to grovel.

"No, I did not." She used her reassuring doctor voice and stepped backward. "I called you "Greedo" the green guy from Star Wars."

There was absolutely no comprehension in those muddy eyes.

"Greedo? The bounty hunter Han Solo kills in the cantina? Tell me you've seen those movies." Because she had, and far too many times thanks to Santana's corruption of her older son.

The man exhaled slowly and visibly relaxed. "I didn't know he had a name."

Quinn laughed in relief. That could have ended a lot differently. She wondered if this whole "getting to know herself" thing was the best idea because _she_ was turning out to be more snarky than she would have thought. Lucy had been demure and never back-talked; high school Quinn had been scary, angry and bitchy until she started dating Rachel; college Quinn was mostly serious and studious; doctor Quinn was even more serious and narrow-sighted; but mid-life crisis Quinn was a whole lot of fun so far. Even if she put her foot in her mouth a lot.

"Yeah. Sorry. I should've gone with Yoda, huh?"

Oscar the Grouch broke out laughing. Thank Jesus.

"It's better than Jabba," he smiled and his entire face changed. No longer was he the intimidating stranger who honestly frightened her a moment ago. Now he was a cherub-cheeked charmer who looked more like a mischievous elf than a grown man. He held out his hand in greeting. "For the record, my name is Brad. Brad Baladucci."

She tentatively clasped it and they shared a firm handshake. The whole "guido" moment made even more sense now. "Quinn Fabray-Berry. Sorry about all the green guy references." At the puppy-like tilt of his head, she clarified. "There were more in my head."

Brad nodded in understanding and smiled. "Thanks for not sharing. I still have to kick you out, but I can make you something to take with you."

The mere mention of a hot drink made her shudder from the cold she'd neglected in favor of pacifying the barista. "Thank you. That'd be great."

He went to lock the door, then shut off the neon sign and pressed the button for the automatic window blinds to fall. He led her to the counter and sparked up a machine and set about making a scalding cup of coffee just for her. The machine guzzled and garbled as it heated the soy milk and they chatted over the noise. They talked about the art all over the establishment, discovering they both took similar art courses in college and sharing a few anecdotes. So far, Brad was pretty cool. Twenty years her junior, but cool. He was the kind of guy she would have loved to hang out with when she was younger.

Just as he was handing her a reusable travel mug, a door at the back of the shop flew open and a sweaty, lanky young man wearing a pair of old jeans and nothing else strolled in before turning to his right and entering the restroom.

"Thought you were closed, Kermit?"

Brad glared at her and rubbed his hair self-consciously. "I am — the shop is. The back room is open for a private gathering. My friends are waiting for me."

Hazel eyes widened and she choked on her drink. Quinn may be a grown woman who had no hang-ups with sex or talking about it, but she certainly did not want to know that her new friend was holding an orgy in the back of his coffee shop. Health code violations notwithstanding, she was very much conscious about the possibility of people getting sick from participating. She did not spend her career discovering the means for scientists and pharmaceutical companies to create a cure and better treatment plans for the deadly virus just for people to be sexually irresponsible and not worry about contracting the disease because there was a nifty little antibiotic for it now!

Fuming, the doctor was ready to explode and chastise Brad like he was her child, but worse, because she didn't care to spare his feelings. He rounded the counter and put his hands on her shoulders to calm her.

"Whoa. Not what you think. Promise." He tried to smile but cowered before the famous Fabray glare. "It's my art group. We get together a few nights a week and have little workshops or whatever. Last week a guy came in and taught us origami. Intense."

Art? His clandestine, backroom soirée was an art group? She wanted to believe that, really. "Prove it."

A green head bobbed, and Brad grabbed her free hand and led her through the door marked "Employees Only" If the coffee shop were a house, then this would be the living room. It had a couch and an iSPY monitor mounted on the far wall. The space was warmly lit and a handful of people were milling about, waiting. The lighting wasn't the only thing that was warm. It was mostly due to the embarrassment she felt, but she was okay with blaming the portable heaters strategically placed throughout the room as heat rushed to Quinn's fair cheeks. It was like entering an outdoor sauna after running and rolling through snow in a bikini. An experience for which she had the incorrigible Santana Lopez to thank.

Brad introduced her to the circle of men and women sitting behind their easels and sketch pads. There were only six, not counting the guy she saw earlier, but she wasn't in the state of mind to register all their names. No, her brain was still berating herself for jumping to conclusions.

"You can sit anywhere," Brad said, gesturing to a worn but comfortable looking chair in the corner then to a few empty easels in the circle. "Some people couldn't make it because of the weather, so you're welcome to join us."

Before she could open her mouth in reply, a low and sultry voice cut in. "Ready when you are, guys."

A woman with inky black hair and bronze colored skin emerged from behind a free-standing changing screen wearing nothing but a pink terrycloth robe. It belted tightly around her waist, emphasizing an hourglass figure hiding underneath. The top was loose and revealed a wide V of a smooth chest and the hint of more. Her eyes were light gray and focused on Quinn, raking up and down the blonde's healthy form. Oh shit.

Quinn's face burned all the more and her palms began to sweat which had nothing to do with the hot mug she was holding. Nudes. Tonight Brad and his Bohemians were doing nude studies. And this absolutely gorgeous young thing was their subject. She couldn't look away as the woman climbed to a stagger-level platform covered by a white bed sheet.

The doctor hadn't seen a naked woman outside of her profession in six months. And that was her wife. Her wife. She was still legally married to Rachel. And still figuring out how to get Rachel back, or just get her to talk to her. This was not on her list of things to do.

Slender hands moved to the robe's belt and long fingers pulled at the half-knot. Too quickly for Quinn, the raven haired goddess was naked. And eyeing her in a manner she knew all too well. Just because she hadn't been with another woman since she and Rachel got together did not mean she never lusted after others. It didn't mean she couldn't recognize that urge in someone else, either.

"Wanna join?"

Gulping, she shook her head no. The girl pouted and Quinn looked to Brad for help but got nothing except his back. He was sketching already, as were all the others. This wasn't good.

"Why not?"

Because she was already wet and and turned on. The woman looked enough like Rachel for Quinn to forget herself. Rachel. Her eyes fell shut as she pictured the brunette diva. She remembered the times Rachel posed for her on weekend visits during college and telling her it was homework and due on the following Monday. They both knew she was lying and their sessions always ended in love-making.

"I can't draw."

The model scoffed playfully. "Everyone can draw, baby. It's just a question of how well." Gray eyes darted to Quinn's hands, then back to her face. "I bet you're more talented than you let on."

She shouldn't be here. This was too much. She could admit her shortcomings as a person and that she was weak. However, she'd remained strong throughout her marriage. It was difficult, yes, but never —_never _— had the constantly travelling doctor accepted any of the numerous sexual invitations from women and men around the world. Because she loved her wife. She loved her then and still loved her now. She was not about to break her vow just because they were separated. The one time Quinn had given in to temptation and neediness resulted in the creation of another life: Beth.

Beth!

This woman couldn't possibly be older than Beth, and anyone who was young enough to be her child was where Quinn Fabray-Berry drew the fucking line. The double entendre made her smirk and she knew little Mona Lisa over there thought it was for her. So wrong, little girl. So very, very wrong.

Now feeling particularly smug in her steadfastness, Quinn clucked her tongue then took a lengthy sip of her coffee. She placed it on the ground by the easel next to Brad and removed her shoes. The space heaters set up to keep the beautiful muse nice and toasty (and throw everyone else into heatstroke) were put to good use as she dropped her damp sneakers and socks in front of one. If she was going to do this, then she at least was going to get rid of the lingering, bone-deep chill from being out in the rain.

She picked up a stick of familiar compressed charcoal from Brad's pile of tools lying on a cloth by his foot and rolled it experimentally in her fingers. Black smudges adorned her hand as the feel and smell of the utensil brought forth a rush of memories. Lectures, lessons and assignments, concepts and techniques, jargon, and a lifestyle she used to fantasize pursuing overwhelmed her, and the older woman's eyelids closed. This was uncanny, like an amnesiac suddenly remembering her entire life at once.

Quinn took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Her right forefinger compulsively stroked over the tip of the charcoal. Three times, as always. A lazy grin stretched her face and she rolled up her sleeves. She may have just found herself a new hobby.

"All right, Lizzie Siddal." Her smirk grew bigger at the girl's surprised expression. At least she proved to be more than just a pretty model. The Princess Jasmine look-a-like had to be an art student to know that name. Quinn congratulated herself for knocking the seductive stare off her face and straddled the stool at what was now _her_ easel. Her gaze coasted over enticing curves and luscious skin that failed to live up to Rachel's and a lovely face that could never compare to her wife's beauty. A face that was not going to appear in this drawing, because Quinn could so easily recall Rachel's features and had every intention of replacing gray eyes with brown.

On autopilot, her arm raised and the tip of the charcoal stick touched the topmost of the pristine white pages clipped to the drawing board. Filled with a confidence she hadn't felt in the longest time, Quinn angled to the side and arched a taunting, sexy eyebrow at the young woman looking at her nervously. "Let's do this."

So for the next hour, she drew and drew and drew. Sketching, shading, blending lines together, rubbing until others faded, or darkening important features and aspects. Each time the model changed positions, Quinn and everyone else flipped to a new sheet of paper and began again.

Sweat trailed down her back and arms. She paused, stripping down to her tank top and noticing not only the young brunette's appreciative glance, but also those of two others in the room. Nice to know she looked good enough to ogle when there was a nubile, naked, modern-day Queen of Sheba on display. Art group or not, her exercise regimen was staying put.

A smile blossomed on her face when the satellite radio station playing in the room switched to a classic she couldn't remember when she heard last. Not there yet, Bono, but she was getting closer.

The touch screen monitor on the wall came to life by all by itself About ten years ago, a senator from Quinn's home state pushed a bill through that gave local governments the ability to interrupt private viewing in the interest of public safety. It was originally supposed to hand over control of all media in the country, but citizen outcry put a halt to that and demanded revision.

Too bad, so sad, Sue.

Now, every monitor in the country could be activated by the emergency broadcast networks as a way to warn people of imminent danger, whatever it may be. Quinn never thought she'd long for days when she had to smack the side of her sister's handed down, 27 inch TV to get good reception because even Lima Cable went down in a storm.

She glanced up once or twice but returned to the sketch pad. Bad weather, blah, danger, blah, blah, don't leave the house, blah blah blah, flooding, power outages, roads under water, certain homes at risk, blah blah blah blah. Her _Morph_ beeped and began playing the same thing as the monitor, as did everyone else's phones because that's just how the emergency agencies like police, hospitals, etc. worked these days.

Reaching into her pocket, she retrieved the damn thing to shut it off, but it kept beeping at her. There was a message coming through. She saw who it was from and smiled so big it hurt. Josh. Her son was finally talking to her. The passing slide of her thumb over the screen opened the conversation.

Quinn leaped out of her seat and bolted, forgetting her shirt and shoes and running out of the makeshift art room, not hearing Brad's voice calling her back. In moments, a strong hand on her shoulder stopped her at the main door.

"Where are you going? You can't go out there in this storm," he spoke slowly, rationally.

A siren went off in the distance, wailing and assaulting her ears. Sirens were bad. Very bad. And so damned _loud_. Daniel. She tossed Brad's arm off and pulled on her boots and coat. "I need to go. More importantly, I need to borrow your car. Oh God, tell me you have one," she pleaded.

Brad shook his head. "You could get hurt, it's dangerous out there." His face fell as her skin prickled with anger. "My insurance wouldn't cover you anyway," he tried, and failed, to joke.

"_FUCK_ your insurance, Baladucci! I'll buy you a new Goddamned car if you want! Just let me go — I _have_ to go!"

The young man stepped back and the rest of the group had bottlenecked into the shop, lurking to see what the commotion was.

"What is so important for you to go out in a storm like this, even after the broadcast? The sirens are going off, Quinn!"

"_MY SON_!" Her voice broke a little. "My children need me, Brad." She swallowed roughly, not caring that she was close to losing it in front of strangers. "Please."

Scowling, the young man fished his keys out of his pocket, clearly not liking this one bit. "It's the white one out front. I'll get my coat."

Quinn was out the door before he made it five feet from her.

The tiny little car was old, so old it was a hybrid. Which meant it ran on gas, too. Thank God for small favors. Otherwise she ran the risk of it shorting and needing a jump if she drove through too much water. Which she had no qualms about. And this thing could run even with a bit of water in the tank if the electricity of it blew.

She threw the car into gear and drove as fast and as safely as she could. Fifty-eight blocks. It just had to get her fifty-eight blocks — get her to her children. I was ten minutes in good driving conditions, but who knew how long it would take on a night like this? It was okay. She'd make it. Quinn glanced at the glowing screen of her phone shining up from the passenger seat, Josh's message still opened and visible.

It was five letters, but not the ones that spelled their secret word that she'd sent him earlier. This was an entirely different word. A word that right now scared her to hear coming from her oldest child.

_Mommy?_


	7. Baby, I'm Yours

Flashback of Fluffyness!

* * *

Freedom. Sweet, blissful freedom. It was day five of the Fabray-Berry family vacation in remote, gorgeous world of rural New York State, and her trip down the appropriately named Main Street to the tiny grocery store was like being on the sets of _Leave It to Beaver_, _The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet_, and _Green Acres_ combined. Practically theincarnation of_ The Andy Griffith Show_, this place should be renamed from Mountain Dale to Mayberry. There was a "Mom & Pop" diner, an actual general store instead of a convenience franchise, family-owned business that were somehow not only still alive in this day and age, but thriving due to the customer loyalty of the barely over one thousand permanent residents in the area. And she adored how everyone was so polite and friendly, too. The community was used to rental vacationers and was more than accommodating toward out-of-towners. People smiled and greeted strangers as easily as they did long-time friends. It was nice here. Plain and simple.

With a content smile, the Broadway actress pulled into the driveway of the fenced in vacation home and waited for the automatic gate to close behind the Chevy Libretto. It was a cute, safe family sedan and she adored its name. Which may have been the deciding factor in purchasing it, but she'd never tell Quinn that. Truthfully, she didn't have to. Her wife was pretty smart like that. Still, they were going to need a bigger car soon.

Her pace was slow and steady as she cruised along the black pavement, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel to a mental sing-through of a number in her upcoming show. She shook it out of her head. Rehearsals were set to begin at the end of this getaway, but for now she wanted to focus on having fun with her family instead of work. It was an occupation she dreamed about all her life and loved, yes, but if Quinn promised to leave her job at home, then she should do the same. Having her wife all to herself, not sharing her with Dr. Jonah Saulke and the rest of the research team (though he was a lovely man and generous enough to offer them his summer home for two weeks), was Rachel's idea of Heaven right now.

Nearing the end of the serpentine driveway, she slowed the vehicle to a crawl as not only the house came into view, but also a two-and a-half-year-old child riding out of the open garage on his sturdy plastic, big-boy lowrider tricycle. The giant blue wheels of the bike slowed as well as Joshua half peddled, half scooted alongside the Libretto as Rachel reached him. Putting the car in park then popping the emergency brake for good measure, she rolled down her window and folded both arms on the edge of the door, resting her chin on her forearms.

Big green eyes stared up at her from a completely blank face with round, pink cheeks. "Hi Mama."

She held back the easy smile that always appeared when she saw her son and raised a single brown eyebrow. "Hi. What are you doing out here?" she questioned, adding "alone and unsupervised" in her head.

He blinked at her. "Go-in datebug systm."

Ahh, of course. The Dagobah System. Joshua's trusty plastic hockey stick that doubled as a light saber ever since his Tia released her inner sci-fi geek and sat him down for an extensive and in-depth tutorial on the original Star Wars saga was tucked between his back and the upright seat of his Playskool trike. Skywalker was on a mission.

"I see," Rachel said in mock seriousness. "And just where is your mother, young Jedi?"

"N'side. Her died-ed."

Blood drained from her face and her skin went clammy. Rachel swallowed harshly. "What?" She couldn't have heard him right. "Joshua, where's Mommy?"

"Kitchnen. Ond the floor."

The brunette momentarily froze in shock. "Stay here," she stammered. She cut the engine and catapulted out of the car, not worried about Joshua. The whole ten acre property was surrounded by a five foot tall fence and equipped with an imposing security system complete with cameras. He'd be safe. But what about Quinn? Quinn, and —

"Baby?" Fear ripped through her petite frame as fast feet propelled her toward her wife. Bursting through the door, she raced to the kitchen. "Quinn?" she shouted, catching herself with both hands on the doorframe.

There, on the other side of the island counter and in front of a sink full of popping soap bubbles, she spotted bare feet and sprawled legs as her wife lay motionless on the linoleum. "Oh God — QUINN!"

Rachel rounded the counter and fell to her knees, grasping the sides of Quinn's face and shaking the blonde a bit, not noticing hazel eyes already opened in surprise.

Water-pruned hands gripped hers and pried them away. "What? What's wrong?" Quinn sat up. "Is it Josh? Is he okay?"

The diva's arms were around her wife, crushing her in the tightest hugged they'd ever shared. "Oh thank God!"

Her chest heaved from panic and the mad dash into the house, but she managed to answer the confused woman beneath her. "Joshua's fine. He said you died and were lying on the floor and I came running in and here you were and I was so scared, baby." One hand absently fell to Quinn's stomach and the other cupped her cheek.

A puzzled eyebrow arched up and Quinn eyed her skeptically. "Josh is okay?

Rachel nodded. "He's fine." Her watery gaze scrutinized the taller woman's form searching for injuries before looking about the room for evidence of an accident — something to explain why her wife had been flat on her back in the kitchen. "What are you doing down here? Did you slip? Are you hurt?"

Quinn shook her head, a few wisps of hair falling from her ponytail onto her face. Rachel brushed them away unconsciously, needing to touch Quinn. Needing to confirm she was here and alive. "No. Josh and I were playing."

"Playing?" Disbelief covered her features. "Playing what?"

"Star Wars," Quinn said plainly. "I was doing dishes, but he wanted to be Luke Skywalker and I had to be his family. Then I found out he meant his burned-to-a-crisp-by-the-Empire family, so I had to play dead for him to come home and find me." She looked around, stretching up a little and trying to spot if their son was on the opposite side of the counter.

Rachel blasted out a half hysterical but wholly relieved laugh. A gruff, loud, grateful laugh. "Really?" She wiped at her eyes, wet from both terror and now humor. "Well I hate to break it to you, Uncle Owen, but Luke Skywalker is halfway down the drive on his Big Wheel."

Hazel eyes narrowed. "That little shit."

Another, gentler laugh bubbled up and she pulled her annoyed wife closer. Pressing their foreheads together, she calmed as the adrenaline gradually dissipated but the worry remained. "I was so scared, Quinn," she whispered.

The hand resting on the blonde's belly stroked circles over smooth skin after slipping under an old, faded McKinley High t-shirt. Quinn kissed her cheek and reached to intertwine their fingers. "I'm okay." She held their joined hands tightly to her abdomen. "_We're_ okay."

"Yeah?" Rachel sniffled.

Whispering, Quinn nodded. "Yeah."

Tender kisses sprinkled Rachel's face and coaxed forth a faint smile. Soon the tiny pecks turned into something more. Their lips and tongues met with unwavering reassurance and physical affirmation of what Rachel intellectually knew was true, but scared may not be: everything was all right. Quinn hummed against Rachel's mouth and they eased apart — their faces happy, their eyes shining, and their hands melded together upon the creamy skin of the doctor's bump of a stomach. "I'm not going anywhere, Rach."

Suddenly hauled to her feet, she was enveloped in warm, secure arms. The shaken actress exhaled deliberately and settled against her wife, laying additional kisses to her lips and banishing thoughts of the unspeakable.

"You're never going to lose me, baby." Quinn took Rachel's hand and fiddled with the ring on her finger, a silly smile spreading across her beautiful, somewhat fuller face. Hugging her closer, the taller woman rested her lips against Rachel's ear. "Baby, I'm yours…"

Untrained, out of formal practice, but still sweetly smoky, Quinn's voice carried on breathy whispers and Rachel didn't care if a few sharps or flats might weasel their way in because her wife was singing to her.

"And I'll be yours, until stars fall from the sky." Silky lips drifted up to kiss her temple. "Yours, until the rivers all run dry."

She sighed and snuggled further, absolutely loving the impromptu serenade but unable to refrain from teasing the usually serious doctor just a little. "You're so cheesy. _**Mine**_. But cheesy."

Quinn jumped back, excited. "Ooh, speaking of food! Where's my bacon, Woman?"

"Ugh!" She was aghast. "For someone who once accused me of setting back the feminist movement fifty years, you're awfully quick to objectify me."

"I'm good at it, too." Quinn waggled her eyebrows, then spanked her!

She married a scoundrel. Their moment of sweetness evaporated and Rachel deflated. "Yes, I got you your strips of butchered swine."

"It's not just for me, you know," the cad defended.

Cravings couldn't be helped, true, but she didn't have to like it. However, ethics and religious beliefs were bypassed in favor of being happy Quinn was all right. Happy their children were all right. Easing down to her knees, Rachel lifted Quinn's shirt and planted a small kiss on her stomach. "You're mine, too, _boychickel_."

A soft chuckle sounded from above. Loving hands met her shoulders and guided her to her feet. "So sure it'll be a boy, huh?"

The shorter woman pecked her six months pregnant wife on the lips before nuzzling into Quinn's neck. "Sshhh. I'm psychic."

Quinn smiled against her cheek and Rachel wanted time to cease, just let them have this forever.

The slap of bare feet pitter-pattering on the kitchen floor restarted the clock, and Joshua galloped toward the stainless steel refrigerator, smearing tiny fingerprints all over as he tried to open it. He turned to them with expectant, curious eyes.

"What doin'?"

It would have been inappropriate for her to say she was practicing phenomenal self-control by not yelling at him for saying his mommy was dead because he wouldn't understand what he did or how much it upset her. Instead she sighed and shook her head. "Nothing, sweetie."

She stayed in Quinn's embrace as they rocked together for no reason other than they could; it was comforting and natural for them to cuddle into one another. "Do you need something, Bubbas?"

"I have chocklit milk?" he asked, complete with a beguiling grin and a "pease" at the end.

Ever one to indulge him, Quinn tried to wiggle free from Rachel's hold to get his sippy cup from the fridge, but she was having none of that. She held her wife fast and answered their son. "Yes, you may have chocolate milk with lunch, Joshua. Please make sure your blankey and hockey stick are in your bed, first."

He didn't have stuffed animals. He'd shunned them all and took naps with the miniature piece of sporting equipment. And she did not want to have to go looking for those later when World War Only Child was on the horizon.

A knowing frown puckered his face. Rachel remained impervious. The silent exchange between mother and son stilled the air of the room. Both knew what was coming after lunch. And both knew that he could throw the biggest tantrum he wanted but he _was_ going down for a nap. Most importantly, both knew that Joshua never failed to listen to his mama and would cave. Eventually. After he had a fit.

Unhappy and unafraid to show it, he put his little fists on his nonexistent hips and stomped his foot forcefully.

Brown eyes wanted to roll so badly, not recognizing how much he resembled her high school self, and perhaps her Broadway self. Their staring contest lasted three more seconds before Joshua inhaled an enormous breath to explode and tell her just how upset he was about going "sleepy-bye" once he finished eating. Detonation in 5, 4, 3, 2 —

"I dunno, baby. I think Josh is too big for naps now."

Bewildered, the brunette gaped at her wife. Did she not just see il divo about to pull an _Enola Gay_ and drop a Terrible Twos bomb of colossal proportions?

"Ex-excuse me?" she stammered, positively baffled. "_Of course_, he needs a nap, Quinn! Look at him." She jerked her head in the boy's direction.

The boy who was rubbing his eyes and yawning through his ire.

"Nope," Quinn said, popping the "p". "He's fiiiinne." She sniffed haughtily. "I think you're wrong."

Mercedes Jones' voice ran loudly in her head. Hell to the no, Quinn was not about to pull this shit.

"I beg your pardon?"

That hazel stare locked on to hers then shot to Joshua before returning to meet appalled brown eyes. "I. Think. You're. Wrong."

Oh. Well then.

Rachel stood up straight and dramatically jerked away, stepping back and crossing her arms. "I. _Know._ I'm. Right."

Joshua moved closer, looking back and forth between the two of them, tired and confused. "What doin'?"

Quinn swiftly picked up her cue. "Nothing, Joshy. Just telling Mama she's wrong."

"And I'm telling Mommy that I'm right."

"Wrong," the blonde goaded.

"Right."

"Wro-ong." Was sing-songing it really necessary?

She chimed back just as childishly. "Riii-iiight."

"Wrong!"

"No!" Joshua's voice cut off Rachel's volley. "Mama's right!"

"Oh?" Quinn leaned down to Joshua's level. "Your Mama says you need a nap. Is that true?"

"Yes! Nap! I gon nap, Mommy!"

Nodding with a melodramatic sigh, Quinn bowed out gracefully. "Okay Joshy. You're right—Mama's right. You may take a nap after lunch."

He stomped his foot again, "Good." Then the imp scampered off to retrieve his designated sleepy-time supplies.

Objective achieved, meltdown avoided, Rachel released a sigh. She was too drained to face-off with a toddler after her earlier shock.

"Would you look at that?" The triumphant smirk on the blonde's face should not be sexy. Shouldn't be, but so was.

"Well played, Mommy."

Darkening green eyes twinkled with victory. "Not bad yourself, Mama." Quinn winked.

Rachel blushed. "Well, I _am_ an actress, you know." A single step later she was back in the blonde's embrace. "And you're a fantastic scene partner."

"Mmm, I'm a fantastic partner in other ways, too."

She shivered as Quinn's voice caressed her. Yes, Rachel was very well aware of exactly how fantastic Quinn could be — in all ways. Jumping from a sharp nip to her ear, she swatted the blonde's arm. "How on Earth are you turned on right now?"

The hum of a sexy chuckle rumbled against her neck as Quinn progressed lower, answering while leaving open mouth kisses along the diva's throat. "One, I'm pregnant."

Okay. She had to give her that one. Quinn damn near broke her while carrying Joshua. After all that, Rachel re-forgave Quinn her bitchiness during their sophomore year when she was pregnant with Beth. "And two?"

"Arguing with you riles me up. Always has."

"Goodness, so much of high school makes sense now," she muttered sarcastically.

A hot tongue licked from Rachel's collar bone up to trace the shell of her ear. "Glad you finally caught on, baby. Only took ten years, but good job."

"Twelve!" she squeaked as enthusiastic hands slid from her waist to paw and knead her bottom.

Quinn shrugged and kissed the underside of her jaw. "Ball park."

"You "ball park" how long we've been together?" she huffed.

"Oh all the time."

She was supposed to be upset, but a wet tongue was swirling down the column of her throat again and one hand slipped up her shirt, spanning the small of her back and drawing her nearer to her wife. The other kept roaming over her backside. "You're awful."

"I'm adorable. And horny."

Her fists bunched in the soft cotton of her wife's shirt as she let her head fall back, silently encouraging more kisses. And licks. Oooh, and bites. Arousal teemed through her veins as manicured nails dug in to her ass and her hips jerked forward. "Quinnnn!"

"Seems you are, too."

Rachel was not about to protest that, especially since her mouth had captured Quinn's in a fervid kiss and she pushed her back against the sink, fastening her arms around the taller woman's waist. Tongues sparred, hands strayed from relatively "safe" zones and tapered fingers tweaked Rachel's nipple through her shirt and bra before they moved on popping open buttons to get rid of everything altogether. She tugged at Quinn's ponytail, anxious to bury her hands in the thick strands and direct that talented mouth any-and-everywhere on her body she pleased.

Then Quinn was inside her shirt, in her bra, cupping her breast in one very experienced hand. Rachel didn't waste time mirroring the action. Quinn's breasts were sore from pregnancy and it would pain more than pleasure her. As an alternative, she went right to the main event. She freed the metal button on the blonde's jeans and maneuvered her way inside.

While often a complete bitch, pregnancy hormones could be sort of awesome. They both moaned as her fingers met wetness and stroked sleek lips. Quinn gripped the edge of the counter with one hand then scraped the nails of her other down Rachel's chest and sternum. They broke apart, panting against each other's mouth, yet gathered enough breath to have a mostly coherent conversation.

"We — bedroom." A wayward fingertip dipped inside scalding, silky liquid.

"Yessss." There were whimpers and searching hips. "Josh?"

"Probably fell asleep. Can check".

Quinn nodded and kissed her again. Rachel's rational mind failed to restrain her movements, and she slipped fully into her wife's center. "Baby, you feel so fu — "

"What doin'?"

— uuccckkkking hell.

Horny, disheveled, and taken by surprise, the mothers went completely immobile. Rachel was knuckle deep in her wife while their son unknowingly interrupted really hot, spur-of-the-moment kitchen sex. Twat swatted by a two-year-old. He'd probably be traumatized now.

Her cheeks aflame, the winner of the Clarence Derwent Award for Most Promising Female, choked. Never had she known stage fright, but she imagined this was how it must feel. She wasn't breathing; sweat beaded her brow; her heart clobbered against her ribcage, and…Quinn's eyes were faaarr too amused.

Pale fingers blithely righted Rachel's bra and re-buttoned her shirt. They slid down her arms, one falling to her wrist and gently removing her hand from inside Quinn's — er, Quinn. They both shuddered and mourned the separation, but the blonde was strangely first to recover.

"Ready for your nap, Joshy?" She pecked the brunette on the lips then casually slipped out of the embrace.

He spoke through a yawn. "Chocklit milk?"

"After you wake up. Then we'll have lunch and play outside," Quinn quickly rewrote today's schedule.

Rachel heard grunting as Quinn lifted the boy then opened the refrigerator. It slapped shut and she blew out a shaky, guilty breath. Her son just caught her with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

"Seep bye, Mama."

She finally turned and gave a small wave. "Sleepy bye, _bubbeleh_. I love you."

"Uv you."

He tucked himself into the blonde's shoulder, clutching his One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish print blankey under his chin.

"Let's go, Bubbas. Your mamas have to take a nap, too." Quinn rubbed his back and fired off a quick wink at the brunette, then carried the boy upstairs to his room across the hall from theirs.

Rachel counted to sixty. Twenty minutes ago she'd been terrified out of her mind, afraid for her wife's safety. Quinn was okay. Joshua was okay. The baby was okay. Everything was okay. Except for the painful ache between her legs and the mad desire to love her wife until they collapsed breathless, sweating, and tangled in each other's arms. That needed remedying right away.

She listened for Joshua's door to close then waited again. Seconds later, she heard Quinn's quiet, "Now, are you ready for _your_ nap, baby?"

Instead of answering, she simply headed directly up the stairs to see a beautiful blonde wearing nothing but a bra and jeans standing outside the master suite. With a grin, she watched Quinn undo the button on her jeans and walk backward into the bedroom. Rachel followed, stripping off her wrinkled shirt on the way. Naptime sounded splendid.


	8. Here Comes That Rainy Day Feeling Again

So, general disclaimers: I don't own Glee, and yes, all the chapters are titled after songs(again, written by other persons) because I'm not clever enough to name things.

* * *

Fifty-eight blocks, multiple detours due to closed and flooded roads and passageways, five red lights, two inches of rain per hour, and one freshly abandoned little white hybrid later, Quinn was running down the darkened East 49th Street in Midtown. Running like the Devil Himself was chasing her to get to the restored Brownstone house up ahead. Running because, quite literally, come Hell or high water, she was getting to her kids.

The doctor was convinced her lungs contained more water than air as her chest heaved with each breath. Her heart battering against her ribs, her blurring vision, the burning in her muscles — it was all irrelevant. Never did the middle-aged woman think she'd be grateful to hear the abusive, sharp voice of Sue Sylvester in her head: Faster, Fabray! Move your ass!

Today was the day she would've made that bitter old battle-axe proud. The United States Marine Corps Physical Fitness qualifications all McKinley High cheerleaders had to meet under the tutelage of the now-senator were laughable when it came to the capabilities of an alarmed mother powered by sheer adrenaline and a primal response to her children in danger. Screw the boot camp requirements; she ran just a little over a mile in about ten minutes. In a thunderstorm. Soaked through to her skin. With three inches of water covering the sidewalks. Forget the Marines. She could be a fucking Green Beret.

If she didn't have a heart attack first.

What the hell was she thinking?

Simple fact: she wasn't. Quinn's higher mental faculties shut down the minute she realized her kids needed her and just how bad the weather conditions really were. Pure maternal instinct took over instantly, and she had to get to her babies by any means necessary. Including a friendly felony like Grand Theft, Auto. She wasn't joking when she told Brad the Barista she'd buy him a new car. Which was good for him since the vehicle was now stuck in a very large puddle near Bryant Park and 5th Ave. No engine, regardless whether it was electric, hybrid, or old-fashioned gasoline, could function when it was submerged in water.

Lightning as bright as dawn illuminated the night, and she saw how close she was to the four-story townhouse they bought six years ago. Lights were on. They still had power. Mildly relieved, Quinn swallowed down her heart, warily hopping the waist high wrought iron gate sealing the residence away from the sidewalk then taking the stone steps two at a time. The motion sensors were triggered and lights and more sirens went off.

Sliding to the left of the door, her hands searched over the scratchy exterior of the house then she pressed her right thumb to the smooth surface in front of her. The faux brick touchscreen shimmered and a scrolling ticker at the bottom warned that the system would shut down in seconds unless proper identification was made. She lined up her hazel gaze and stared at the blinking red dot in the center of the screen.

_Retinal scan complete. Authorization verified. Access granted. Welcome home, Quinn._

Another time she'd have been pissed at the computerized voice for saying that. Instead the worried mother was grateful her estranged wife hadn't reset the system and blocked her in the five months this house hadn't been Quinn's home.

Silence prevailed. Before the security unit could camouflage itself again, Quinn was in the foyer, leaning against the closed and locked front door. Calling out her kids' names, the drenched woman carefully jogged through the first floor. No one answered. Again, she took the stairs two at a time, slipping only once. The intention was to bypass the dark hall of the second story and charge directly to the third floor where the kids' bedrooms were, but the light coming from underneath a door across from the stairwell stopped her mid-step.

She didn't hesitate in turning the knob and barreling into what used to be her office. "Hello?"

The standing lamp in the corner shone brightly next to the desk she'd spent hours poring over case studies and documenting trial results for the FDA to review. Hours she hadn't spent with her children. On the surface of said desk were a few battery-operated candles ready to be clicked on if necessary. There was a handheld satellite radio, real candles and a box of kitchen matches, three untouched water bottles and…an open bag of contraband Oreos next to empty glasses with telltale milky residue. Yeah. They were here.

"You guys?" She grunted, clearing her throat and not giving a damn that she was already getting sick.

Thirty-six inches of a human missile launched from behind the giant mahogany desk and Ava crashed into Quinn, gripping her thighs and pressing her chubby cheek into sopping wet jeans. "Mommy!"

Immediately she lifted the frightened child and hugged her tightly to her chest. Neither minded that the rain-drenched mother's clothes were soaking through her daughter's thin pajamas. "I'm here, baby."

She cradled a head of long, thick brown hair as Ava buried her face into her mommy's neck. Quinn glanced about, seeking out her sons. Another dark head of hair popped up from behind her desk and a strong, cleft chin rested on the flat top. "Hi Josh." The teen was stone-faced and his jaw clenched. "Where's your brother?"

Apprehensive green eyes cast downward and Quinn understood.

"Here, come take Avy." The little girl in question furiously shook her head. Quinn spoke reassuringly, looking away from her approaching son. "It's okay, Vee. I'm all gross and wet, though. Can you help Josh find Mommy some dry clothes?"

Being handed off to her brother, Ava snuggled into him but looked mournfully at Quinn.

"I'll be right here when you get back. I'm not leaving." She kissed the little girl's cheek and reached for Josh, but he turned on his heel and was out the door in seconds. Quinn let it go. He could be as mad as he pleased. Just because he messaged her didn't mean he was going to play nice. Having sent the text at all was likely eating away at his inherited Fabray pride.

Like she would toward an abused, sleeping animal, Quinn tip-toed near the enormous desk. The squelching of her boots each time the soles met the carpet was cartoonish but there was no humor in it. She lowered to all fours before crawling around the furniture.

There, hiding in the cubicle of free space underneath the large desk, was Daniel. His legs were pulled to his chest and his cheek rest on the tops of his knees. He would have been rocking back and forth if he had the room. The frightened boy looked so helpless and lost squeezed into the confining area. It made sense that he chose here, though. Danny used to play under her desk all the time. He liked enclosed spaces; they made him feel safe. Being by his Mommy was a big factor in that feeling, too. The blonde's heart ached.

"D?" she whispered not wanting to startle him. He hadn't focused his glazed eyes on her so she wasn't sure if he knew she was there. "D, it's Mommy."

He didn't blink.

Slowly, but not hesitantly, Quinn reached her hand out to touch Daniel's arm. No reaction. He was rigid and unconscious of his surroundings, and had withdrawn into himself as a means of escaping the storm. It'd been a long time since he'd done this.

Drained, she sat back in observation. He'd grown in the time she hadn't seen him. Quinn wasn't large by any standard, but she couldn't fit under her desk without some discomfort, and five months ago Daniel had surpassed her height by three inches. Now the thirteen-year-old looked even taller, cramped as he was. He also looked heavier and wider. From this perspective, he reminded her of Gulliver among the Lilliputians. He was going to be so sore if she didn't get him out of there soon. She hated to think how long he'd been hiding here in the first place.

Quinn tried again. "Daniel? Baby, it's time to come out, all right? You're safe now. I'm here and the storm is passing. You're safe." The rain was still heavy, but hopefully the lessening thunder and fewer lightning flashes coming through the windows meant the massive gale was finally on its way out and not just in a lull.

Still no response.

"It's okay to be scared. I was scared, too." She scootched closer. "I was worried about you. And Josh, and Avy. I came to make sure you were safe and I'm so happy you are."

"Why'd you go away?"

Brown eyes stared off into space and a man's voice came from her son's body. Yet, the element of raw fear found only in children was so clear.

Progress. Painful, but progress nonetheless. It was also a bargaining chip. Quinn held out her hand. "We can talk about it, but you have to come out of there."

"Why?"

"Because I'm too old to sit on the floor like this," she tried for a smile.

Daniel's attention finally landed on her. "You're forty-two."

"Yeeeaaahh," she stretched out the word, not sure where this was going. Age was not something Quinn enjoyed being reminded of.

"The average life expectancy for a woman is over ten years more than it was when you were my age."

Quinn frowned. Currently, that age was holding steady at ninety-six. But in reality there were so many centenarians these days that that number needed to be reevaluated. Absently, she wondered if the population would ever plateau as statistics once implied. "And?"

"The difference between forty-two and ninety-six is greater than the difference between the former and eighty-four which is double your age, so you can't be too old if you haven't even lived half your life yet."

Hazel eyes probed into suddenly lucid brown orbs. She could see it in her head just like she knew he could: 84 ÷ 2 = 42 96 ÷ ½ = 48, so she had six more years until she reached the half-way mark of the average age of death presently predicted for the modern woman.

Like most people with Aspergers, Daniel was very literal. She knew only meant that she logically couldn't be old. But that's not what she heard.

She hadn't lived half her life yet.

Did that mean she'd lived a half-life so far?

By professional standards, certainly not. She'd accomplished things people worked toward for their entire lives and was recognized for it by the medical community worldwide. It'd been dumb luck sprinkled on top of years of hard work and built on the existing research of her mentor, but his passing left her in charge of the project so it was her name on the patent of discovery. Each lecture she credited him, but people didn't care about the late Dr. Jonah Saulke like they did Dr. Quinn Fabray simply because Quinn could answer their questions and lend her supposedly famous name to their organizations' points of prominence.

By personal guidelines, it was a different story. When Jonah died and she took over eight years ago, less time was spent with her family and more was spent at the lab or in her office then later traveling. All this meant that she missed important milestones in the lives of her wife and children. And it was always the same pattern: two or three months in New York working endlessly then flying out for a week or sometimes more because everyone wanted her to expound on the advancements made by her and her team and how the world no longer had to live in complete fear of HIV and AIDS. It felt good, too, intoxicating. She'd gotten recognition and gained a kind of celebrity status.

She snorted. Her name might turn heads among her colleagues, but the random person on the street wouldn't have a clue who she was. Not in the way that same person could easily rattle off a few hit songs and at least three movies starring Rachel Berry.

"Daniel, where's Mama?"

Shrugging in such close quarters must've felt as awkward as it looked. "Josh said she was on her way."

Quinn nodded quietly then sat up on her knees to check the time on the desk clock. It was just past midnight. There was no reason she could think of for Rachel to be out so late, or to have gone out at all in this kind of weather.

The whispered slide of the opening door drew her attention to the entering Joshua and Ava. The little girl seemed calmer and walked toward her with an armful of t-shirts. Quinn cocked an amused eyebrow then was shut down by Josh coldly tossing her a pair of sweatpants.

"They're mine. There was nothing else." His words were very clear. Nothing else because she took it with her when she left.

She forced a smile in thanks anyway. If he didn't want to deal with her right now, fine. His siblings were of a higher priority.

"You hafta pick out a shirt," Ava announced.

"I do, do I?" Ava gave a very serious nod and Quinn hid her smile. "Why didn't you choose one for me?"

"Betuhhhzz!" The four-year-old huffed and rolled her eyes. "Mama says we hafta share 'less it's a special toy. But I don't know if hers shirts is special or not."

The woman was torn between laughing at her daughter's obsessive observance of rules and regulations and cringing in fear of wearing something that belonged to Rachel. Not because she didn't want to. Night after night, she longed for the scent of rich vanilla perfume mixed with the lingering proof of an unhealthy addiction to roasted coffee, plus the headiness that was Rachel herself. No, it was because the diva might flip out that Quinn was in the house at all, and wearing her shirt to boot.

They hadn't seen each other since the taxi cab goodbye, but she knew somewhat how Rachel was doing. According to Santana, Rachel teeter-tottered between angry and depressed. The only times she was happy were when the kids were around or when she was working. She didn't know exactly what the actress was doing, but she did know that rehearsals were usually during the day from ten in the morning to six-ish at night. It's not like Rachel had called to tell her any good news about possible shows, either. She'd interpreted Quinn's initial silence as the new order and had no plans of crossing the boundaries of communication.

Quinn kicked herself for that one. Because of that, the only reason she had contact with the kids was due to Santana's assistance and Rachel's assumed lack of objection. Six weeks ago, Auntie Tana became a go-between, but only Ava wanted to see Quinn. Daniel had barely begun talking to her again, just phone conversations a few times a week. While she missed the boys, the last few weekends with Avy were wonderful. They were like tourists. There was so much of the city to be seen. They went to Central Park Zoo, caught a free children's concert in Madison Square Park and two weeks ago at F.A.O. Schwartz, they spent time together laughing and playing while Quinn remembered what it was like to be free and started truly learning about the unique little person she'd missed out on for the last year when everything with Rachel went from simmering resentment to full on boiling anger and frustration, then to numb resignation.

However, Josh refused to have anything to do with her. She couldn't blame him. She was the one who made the final break in their collapsing family, and the teenager had every right to hate her the same way she'd hated Russell for doing the same when she was that age.

Floundering against a fresh wave of tears, Quinn tucked a strand of hair behind Ava's ear then thumbed away the dark cookie crumbs at the corners of her mouth. "How about you choose a shirt for me and stay with your brothers while I take a shower and change?"

Little shoulders raised and dropped in a shrug, and the girl pawed through the mountain of shirts. Hoisting herself off the floor, Quinn stretched before bending and looking at Daniel from upside down. "Ready to get out, D?"

Passively, he gripped her extended hand and wormed his way into the open, standing.

Quinn gaped. This could not be her son. The boy she saw months ago was closer to Josh's height than hers, but now was definitely taller than his brother. Nearly half a head taller. His shoulders had always been broader — his frame was rectangular whereas Josh's was cut in the athletic, inverted triangle shape — but he looked much larger than the sixteen-year-old who just returned to the office, and enormous compared to the son she said goodbye to all those weeks ago. The kid was huge. She'd given birth to Paul Bunyan.

He moved, blocky and awkward. Daniel was always a little clumsy and larger than his friends, but this growth spurt was likely going to be harder on him than it would've on other boys his age. Especially since he didn't behave like boys his age and never had. She frowned. Danny would soon be fourteen, but his friends and classmates from school were just turning twelve because he'd been held back in school at Quinn's request.

Rachel had been furious with her, arguing that their son was already "different" and didn't need another reason for others to pick on him. Quinn reasoned that it was unfair to place such high social expectations on him while attending a new school that was not specifically geared toward students who fell within the autism spectrum. Age-wise, and now definitely physically, their son was a teenager. But emotionally and socially, Danny functioned anywhere between nine and twelve years old. It was this that made it so easy for him to bond with Ava: he acted more closely to the age she actually was. (Some days, however, Rachel Jr. was four going on forty.) Daniel had matured on schedule, though. Realistically, by the time he got to eighteen and legally became an adult, he'd be at the level of a fifteen or sixteen-year-old.

Of course, there were the areas where the boy far surpassed his peers and was a certifiable genius. His IQ wasn't off the charts, but damn close. And his mathematical skills were astounding. If she thought he could handle it, she'd tell him to drop out of school and get his GED, breeze through college in maybe two years then go to grad school for his Ph.D. in Engineering before his twenty-first birthday. Daniel could probably get multiple doctorates if he felt like it. He'd just likely be living at home still because of how hard it was for him to understand social interactions and adapt and function in certain situations.

God, Rachel would kill her for even thinking that.

Flags also known as T-shirts and could be worn on one's body waved in front of her face.

"Does you want this one?" Ava asked, coming to stand by her brother. Danny bent sideways and tilted down to pat the top of her head, his other hand never leaving Quinn's.

She looked at her gentle giant of a son and smiled. The kids were safe. Josh wasn't speaking to her, Danny was a lumberjack, and Ava was pouting because the blonde hadn't answered. But they were okay. So Quinn was okay.

Common sense presented itself and she opted out of showering during a thunderstorm and settled for thoroughly toweling off and tossing her clothes in the dryer in the basement. Wearing Josh's sweats and Rachel's Wicked revival tank top, Quinn trudged up the stairs to find Ava sitting on the top step.

Danny had taken her to change out of her own rain-dampened-by-proxy clothes, replacing her moon and stars pajama set with a Disney Princess nightgown. The media conglomerate was scraping for ideas, but had a blockbuster a few years ago. Tweeked and centered on the deliverance of the Jews in Persia, it was told through the eyes of Hadassah before she became Queen Esther. It was a little darker and more similar to the features released nearly a hundred years ago than to the sweet, lighthearted damsels and singing animals Quinn grew up with. Its animated heroine also happened to be voiced by one Rachel Berry. There really was no escape — the universe was officially punishing her with haunting reminders of her wife.

"It's late, Avy. Are you ready for bed?" she asked, picking the child up off the floor. The stuffed Sneetch in her grasp biffed Quinn in the face. Weirdly enough, it was comforting.

"Can you cuddle me?" Mini-Rachel absolutely played up the pitiful timbre of her voice, but Quinn agreed just the same as Danny appeared from nowhere.

"Can-can I come, too?" Despite his size and age, he was so young.

He was also not too fond of being touched. It was one of the quirks about his response to certain stimuli. Breast feeding hadn't lasted long with him. Touch just wasn't something he liked unless he was scared. However, hugs were permitted. And when Quinn sat on the couch reading the latest literature on virology and new developments in the field, Danny would come and sprawl across her lap, lying on his belly while she absently petted his back like a kitten. Outside of Ava's constant companionship, he didn't much care for contact.

Refusing his request never occurred to her. "Of course, D."

Her faced twisted in deliberation. She planned to crash on the couch but that was out. And neither of their beds would fit all three of them. Judicious eyes glanced down the hall to the master suite. It belonged to Rachel now, but Quinn made an executive decision the brunette would just have to deal with. "C'mon."

The trio crawled into the massive bed; Quinn was bookcased in the middle for optimal snugging. The size contrast between her son and daughter was comical, but the laughter wouldn't come. She didn't have it in her after tonight's ordeal. The exhausted mother secured an arm under Daniel's head, curling to stroke the loose swirl of his curls. Ava was mostly on top of her, leaving Quinn to drape a hand over her small back and keep her close. The sense of peace falling about her overwhelmed the doctor.

A rough cough from the doorway cut through the calm. Quinn's eyes fluttered open and she made out the shape of her other son in the darkness. "Josh?"

There was some awkward shuffling then, "I just wanted to make sure you — they — were all right, you know?" He took his duty as man of the house very seriously. Too bad Quinn knew he was bluffing.

Ava piped up. "Come cuddle."

Now Josh, Joshua Hiram Fabray-Berry, was the snugglebug. His hair had to be played with. His cheeks had to be brushed. He had to be held at every opportunity. And his body had to be tucked tightly to hers when she sang songs and read stories during bedtimes long since past.

"Please?" Ava's pout was audible. And no one could say no to the miniature diva-in-training when she broke out the fragile and forlorn child routine. Manipulation was an art, and she was a master.

Josh huffed as if he hadn't been seeking the invitation and moved to the bed. Like any big brother, he shoved Danny closer to the center of the mattress, forcing Quinn and Avy over as well. Immediately, the old nursery rhyme Ten in the Bed came to mind and the "roll over, roll over" hook elicited a giggle.

"S'funny?" Daniel was nearly out.

"Nothing, D." The smile lurking within her finally surfaced. "Just happy to be hom — here." She caught herself just in time. Saying it would hurt more because it wasn't true. This wasn't home anymore.

If she were honest with herself, it likely wouldn't be again. No matter how much she wished it could be. It was a marvel the kids were warming to her after what she'd done, but the possibility of Rachel forgiving her yet again was unrealistic. The last few years, her wife criticized Quinn's inabilities to be a good spouse or mother. The fighting escalated. The resentment built. And the doctor's guilt ate at her like the three-headed dog of Hades gorged on those who dared to flee the Underworld. The worst part is that she hadn't realized her mistakes until it was too late. For that and other reasons, she felt deserving of this Hell.

But she was going to capture whatever sliver of Heaven she could reach. "I'm happy to be with you guys, that's all."

Quinn kissed the top of the now sleeping Daniel's head and stretched her arm lengthwise as her hand hunted for the shaggy mop of hair covering his brother's head. Josh was at the edge of the bed but subtly scooted closer to meet her fingertips. Tears pooled in her eyes. Finally, she had all her babies. The serenity she felt earlier was nothing compared to the soul-completing euphoria engulfing her now.

"Mommy?"

"What, Vee-vee?"

Tiny hands weakly fisted the fabric of the tank top Quinn wore and their owner pathetically asked, "Will you sing me songs?"

Holding back a chuckle and an eye roll was more strenuous than she would have guessed. Ava had learned from the best. Yet, she smiled even as she drew a total blank. Her mind was done for the night. "What do you want to hear?"

Her question was met with silence. Danny was conked, and Avy was drifting. Maybe she wouldn't have to sing. She wasn't anywhere near as good as their Mama – no one on the damn planet was – so that had to excuse her from butchering their ears. But before she could relax and hand herself over to sleep, a soft, quiet husk cut through the dark.

"Sunny." The rasp in Josh's voice was her undoing. "Sing Sunny."

For the first time tonight, he let himself crack. He was vulnerable and she was in no position to reject such a beautiful gift or deny him the song he loved as a child. She was finishing the first verse before she realized it.

"The dark days are gone, and the bright days are here, my sunny one shines so sincere." Hazel-green eyes found their match and Quinn smiled through her tears, whispering their arbitrary five letter word that was everything but trivial. "Oh, Sunny one so true, I love you."

Neither remembered finishing the song as they succumbed to sleep. Nor did they know about the tearful woman slumped against the hallway wall, hiding.

Hiding…and hating.


	9. Where Do You Go?

Like always, large and in charge with the not owning of Glee, nor the song mentioned. Unbeta'd.

* * *

This was absurd.

And not at all how she planned her day would go.

Rachel lay stretched on the gray suede couch, feet crossed at the ankles and both arms thrown over her eyes. She was tired and frustrated and just _done_.

She loved her job. It paid well enough to shock her middle-class, Midwestern standards, but she never questioned that she was worth it. And while this life wasn't exactly what she originally envisioned, it was good and she loved the magic and theatricality of the industry. She did not, however, by any means enjoy the technical aspects of it.

Rachel Berry was a performer. Born for the stage and later instructed for the screen, the diva was on display her entire life. First by compulsion and choice, then by decree. From the age of nineteen, she'd traveled the country with Broadway touring companies of various shows when she should have been finishing her undergrad studies. Instead, she dropped out of NYU's Tisch School for the Arts and embraced the troupe acting experience. After her "big break" on Broadway, she'd been in high demand by theatre directors all over New York, Chicago, and Toronto and took roles outside of Manhattan while she could. It wasn't until after she was married that she stayed close to home—which turned out to be everything she'd ever wanted, to a point. Then, shortly after Daniel turned three, LA called with an offer too good to ignore so Rachel flew out to California with all the naïveté of an ingénue in a Charles Dickens' novel. The Pollyanna attributes she possessed in real life were a boon in the beginning: Hollywood jaded her far less quickly than most others in the business.

However, that was a decade ago and cynicism owned her now. She'd shot from movies, TV, less than a handful of albums (not counting cast recordings), and benefit concerts for some time now, and Rachel wanted back on the stage. She hadn't felt the heat of theatre lamps beating down on her from the catwalks in almost five years, and the icy dread she'd felt in her stomach the day she finished her run playing Dolly Gallagher Levi and said "goodbye" instead of "hello" had yet to thaw. Pregnancy had limited her work options, so her universe centered around that while she slowed down her career, only doing an album and some voice work until Ava was born. Then her maternity leave turned into an indefinite hiatus because she didn't want her daughter to have the same off and on nanny-necessary upbringing her sons had when their mothers happened to be away at the same time, working wherever and whenever the gods of their respective careers deigned. It wasn't too common, but was more often than any of the Fabray-Berry clan would have liked.

But now, instead of making a triumphant return to live theatre, she was trapped in the claws of the corporate entertainment industry. The avaricious vultures of motion pictures and music labels had had enough of hovering and sunk their talons into her yet again. They were the reasons she was stuck in a recording studio, fulfilling a contractual obligation at ten o'clock on a rainy weeknight when she should be home. It was bullshit.

"Are you ready?"

Alan, her producer, sound engineer, and friend by virtue of time only, spoke patient words in an impatient tone. He didn't want to be here any more than she did, yet some of the blame for this rested as much on his broad shoulders as with the money-hungry scavengers picking at her dead career. He and her agent pulled for her to record the title song for a soundtrack to a new movie she had otherwise nothing to do with. He was also the one who then convinced her manager that a new album to coincide with the soundtrack and film release would be the perfect comeback for Rachel Berry.

She'd tried a comeback once. It blew up in confetti of carousel horses right before her eyes.

The weary singer could feel the large, pale-haired man towering above her. Looking at him was the last thing she wanted to do. The album was a communal decision by everyone but her. Adding another track to the list was diktat of the label, and the final song was determined by none other than the dear Mr. Alan Claussøn looming over the couch, likely with his arms crossed. She'd known him long enough to feel confident calling him an asshole for it, too.

Alan's foot connected with the couch frame just below the cushion pillowing Rachel's head.  
"Seriously. Get up."

Sitting was harder than anticipated. Her body felt like a wrung out rag and her voice wasn't faring much better. The recent emotional upheaval of her life was expressing itself bodily, and finally, she was starting to look her age. Well, closer to it. There were wrinkles where her once firm, smooth skin had defied time. The luster was gone from her hair and eyes. She was thinner, too. Rachel always prided herself on looking her best even when at her worst, but her current situation was unprecedented. She had no idea it was possible to feel so awful that she could forget or flat out ignore her body's needs or signs of poor health.

The divorce was making her sick.

She rubbed her eyes and forced herself to stand, stretching and cursing the drainpipe jeans she wore. Yet another example of everyone conspiring against her. Rumors of Rachel Berry's return were "unintentionally" leaked to the tabloids and gossipmongers of the media. As if the visible distress over her broken marriage wasn't enough, she now worried about, and was even more self-conscious of, how she dressed in public. Staying up to date on the latest trends wasn't particularly hard — fashion constantly repeated itself — but it was one more thing she didn't want to bother with because it didn't _matter_. She felt like the outcast teenager all over again, only without her shield of soft sweaters and schoolgirl skirts.

"Let's go, Berry. Time is money."

Right. Because that adage never got old. Alan was such a jerk.

The brash diva held her tongue. It was a finely hewn skill acquired and perfected during her humble, wide-eyed beginnings in New York and served her well in her line of work. A skill she failed to employ in her personal life, mostly within her marriage.

She shook her head, rolled her shoulders and yawned, big and wide. Relaxation was crucial for this to work. All day she'd been tense with anticipation of tomorrow, and the phone call informing her of an additional track being tagged to her album while she'd been at the salon made it worse. It was nerve-wracking enough to have a photo shoot for _Vanity Fair _the next morning, and knowing she'd look like death warmed over no matter what photography tricks they had up their sleeves compounded her worry. No amount of Photoshopping and airbrushing would erase the physicality of her heartbreak.

She blamed Santana. This was the last time she was listening to the blunt woman's spot-on assessment of her shitstorm of a life and how to deal with it. Rachel loved the work, true. And Tana was right to get her ass in gear and back out there, but despite what some may think, the diva wasn't ready the celebrity of it all.

"Move it, Rachel."

There was a special place in Hell waiting for Alan.

Wordlessly, the brunette moved from the mixing room toward the isolation booth hiding in the far corner of the sound studio. A labyrinth of scattered chairs and music stands left by the session musicians did its best to trip her up. It reminded her of Theseus threading the maze on his way to defeat the Minotaur. Considering how bullheaded this night had become, the analogy was apt. Rachel didn't feel like a hero, though. Nor did she have the thing she once counted upon to tether her. The person she trusted to lead her back to herself whenever she faced hopelessness was gone. Her wife left her. Worse, Rachel let her go.

Now secure in the recording booth and cut off from the rest of the world yet again, the singer stared at the sheet music as she put on her headphones. Yes, she could have opted to have the score projected onto the LookingGlas smart-screen window, but she was a traditionalist. The smell of the paper and the feel of it in her hands when she'd placed it on the stand, the sensory proof that this was really her life and that she'd achieved her dreams, usually comforted her. Instead the pages were mocking, laughing at her failure.

Take twenty-two. Twenty. Two. This was unheard of in her world. Prior to today, the most attempts she'd ever done for a track topped out at nine. She was always prepared, knowing her songs backward and forward before production even began. But she hadn't known about this whole ordeal until one o'clock this afternoon. It still didn't excuse the fact she just couldn't get it right.

Sad brown eyes closed. _Get It Right_. The original song she penned at the age of sixteen was also on this album. That track was laid two weeks ago with the other eleven songs to be released. Its meaning was dramatically altered from when she was a teen. The composition was the exact same as when she performed it at Regionals junior year of high school, but oh how very, very different the song itself became. A lifetime of trying to get things right every day — sometimes succeeding, sometimes not — changed her perspective on the lyrics.

Recording it nearly destroyed her. She barely made it home that night before the tears burned rivers of regret down her cheeks. Her life wasn't supposed to turn out like this.

"Ready?" Alan's voice was grainy coming through the "cans" resting on her ears.

She nodded without looking away from the written music. It was time.

The pre-recorded playback began. She'd done a scratch vocal with the orchestra (yes, orchestra) earlier that evening to get a feel for the song, but it hadn't helped her so far and certainly wasn't good enough to put on a record. The Handel-Halvorsen Passacaglia, transposed for cello and viola, tore her from further thoughts of failure. A classical guitar and double bass layered beneath it with a slow cadence of tympani and snare drums without being any bit militaristic. It gave four an half measures of the centuries old piece, and Rachel used those twenty seconds to breathe in preparation for the shift into _Et Maintenant_, or rather, the English adaptation of it. The ricochet bowing of the strings in the Passacaglia switched to sharp plucks and horns edged in unexpectedly, but not overpoweringly so. The song grew in intensity, but kept the subtle melancholy of the original French arrangement.

The lyrical translation Alan chose was used by Connie Francis over eighty years ago, but that was the only thing of the many covers that Rachel's version would have. Because the diva was going to do this her way. She was going to make it her own without the waltz of Connie's cover, without Judy Garland's big band sound, without Sinatra's swing or Elvis's bolero march; without Streisand's demure ballad infected by acid-jazz horns; without Agnetha Fältskog's attempt at relevancy with pop listeners in the early 21st Century; without the empty-heartedness of Roy Orbison's unaffected rendition, or the Latin flare of the Tijuana Brass; without The Supremes' girl group vocals or Willie Nelson's twang; without Sonny & Cher's tambourines and jive, shaker percussion, and the the bluesy perfection that forever lay in Dame Shirley Bassey. No.

She was going to do it Rachel Berry style.

And do it better than all of them.

Or so she thought.

Midway through the second verse, Alan cut the sound. His heavy sigh was visible through the space separating them. Visible, but inaudible. His big hands massaged his face and one reached over and slapped the intercom button to "on" before he leaned back in his chair.

"I don't believe you. I haven't all night. You're not feeling it." He groaned and crossed his arms. "Jesus, do you even know what this song is about, Rachel?"

The answer to that question lay in the very marrow of her bones but she couldn't say it. She was screwing up. Again. The normally loquacious woman had no response for him. Because he was right. She didn't feel it. The risk of immersing herself in this song was just too great. If _Get It Right _wrecked her, this would surely obliterate any ruins that remained. But she didn't have a choice. She had to get this done. Rachel grimaced. Annihilation was inevitable.

In moments she was in the control room, browsing through her phone. Thanks to universal 1Life technology, everything people had on one electronic device was synchronized to whatever others they may own. Media could be transferred and saved forever with customized databases for people, even things from before 1Life had come along.

Finding what she wanted — what she _needed_— Rachel handed the smartphone to Alan and asked him to link it with the LookingGlas software and project it on the magical screen-cum-window of the isolation booth.

"You have a message."

She was already back in front of the mic, centered the appropriate distance from the windscreen filter between her mouth and the mounted microphone when Alan came through on the talkback again. "Read it to me. Please."

"Joshua wants to know when you'll be home."

Rachel rolled her head back, jaw lax and eyes closed. "Soon," she said. "Tell him soon."

Seconds later, the music started and the motivating photo she'd chosen shimmered in front of her.

Times Square, 2015: a much younger Rachel stood holding on to fair-skinned forearms wrapped about her shoulders and chest as Quinn held her from behind, both wearing smiles brighter than the glowing backdrop of the brilliant billboard of Rachel with crossed eyes and the tip of her tongue touching her nose, advertising the revival of Funny Girl. It was her name-making role, the role she won her first Tony for. The role she'd worked toward since she was Ava's age. The role she'd earned and deserved, with Quinn ever present and refusing to let her give up when Rachel's star dwarfed and seemed to supernova in a series of failed auditions or bit roles that took her across the country and farther away from her girlfriend. That photo was taken the first night the sign went up. It was the night Quinn proposed.

Her cue approached, and the abandoned wife inhaled a shaky breath.

"_What now, my love? Now that you've left me…_" Breathe, she reminded herself. Feel it and push past it. "_How can I live, through another day?_"

Santana lied. Time hadn't made things easier. In fact, each day was harder than the last and so much worse than when Quinn was traveling. Why? Because she wasn't coming back. After nearly six months of utter silence, it was abundantly clear the doctor wanted nothing to do with her. And wasn't coming home ever again. Oh, _God_.

It finally hit her: Quinn was gone.

The projection suddenly changed to muted video of a screeching Quinn getting blasted by water from ten-year-old Joshua's and seven-year-old Daniel's squirt guns.

She unfocused her eyes and spotted Alan with one hand on the mixing board and the other holding her phone. Goddamn Alan. Damn him to Hell.

The image shook as playfully narrowed hazel eyes turned toward the camera, and soon the video was a blur of grass and sky because Rachel had taken off running from a mischievous looking Quinn. It was a swirl of the summer home's landscape as the taller woman picked her up and spun her around, the wetness of her clothes soaking through Rachel's as she held her wife hostage for the boys to douse their Mama.

"_Watching my dreams, turn into ashes._"

A new video appeared. Ava's third birthday party. Santana filmed Quinn bouncing the little girl piggyback while Ava held on tightly, giggling. The blonde swung the child about her waist in a move reminiscent of the Lindy Hop, and the two plopped down in front of a large pink and lavender monarch "flutterfly" cake with the toddler parked on her Mommy's lap.

Alan was so fired. She'd find a way to make that happen.

"_And all my hopes, into bits of clay._"

Tears rolled down her face and her throat tightened, but the roughness of added to the dynamism of the song. More and more family videos and photographs scrolled by until it was one of just her and Quinn.

Their wedding video.

No, not fired. Alan was a dead man.

There were blushing cheeks and glistening eyes as Santana performed her final duty as (Badass) Maid of Honor and delivered her speech. There were shared kisses amidst the silenced clinking of cutlery against coffee cups and dinner plates she could still hear in her head. There was the cake cutting and the vegan buttercream frosting covering Quinn's mouth and nose, then the sight of her exacting her revenge by kissing Rachel hard, rubbing the tasty mess all over her face as well. Then came their first dance.

This was too much.

Alan had no right to make this worse.

Image after image. Moment after moment. Memories she'd never have again paired off with the knowledge she'd never make new ones. The ending of the song sneaked up on her, and she straightened. The climax of the song meant the vocals had to rise one more time, completing the scripted three-octave progression few performers ever pulled off in the past. Rachel shut her eyes as if that would block out the pain but it was useless. She felt herself falling away, crumbling into a kind of brokenhearted oblivion.

"_What now, my love? Now there is nothing._" Her voice trembled and her body went rigid. "_Only my last…goodbye._"

The truth of that line weighed down her soul. Insurgent tears battered her closed eyelids until she blinked them away, only to reveal the initial photo of her and Quinn ready to take on the world —together. With more courage than she'd have guessed she owned, the brunette flung her arms wide in the booth. Rachel Berry, self-proclaimed diva and reluctant celebrity, relinquished the final phrase to Rachel Fabray-Berry who let go with everything she had.

"_Only my last…goodbye._"

She punched out the note and held the fermata until her voice nearly cracked, an unsolicited vibrato from the lump in her throat. The music faded out the same time her knees buckled. She collapsed to all fours, ripping the headphones off and ignoring the disgusting mess of tears, snot and drool pooling below her as she wept harder than ever before. Her stomach clenched from the force of her sobs, rebelling and regurgitating bile and coffee. It tasted like despair. Who knew misery had a flavor?

Triggered by the unwanted memories, the anguish she felt within the last year of her marriage rushed forth like a dam bursting. The purging she didn't know she'd needed ensued.

Alan was really good at his job.

One massive hand swept back long brown locks while another awkwardly patted her back. "It's okay." There was a manly sniff then the voice turned rougher. "You got it right this time."

A bitter laugh choked her blubbering. Just as she was about to tell Alan how much of a prick he was, sirens blared from beyond the open doors of the booth and control room. The LookingGlas cut to an emergency weather alert broadcast. The storm was getting worse.


	10. Song Called Children

All disclaimers apply. _Flashback!_

* * *

"Hey Rach?"

Quinn toyed with damp brown locks as the two women lay in bed. Normally after so many rounds of lovemaking in the creaky, neighbor-attention-grabbing bed, she was content to drift off to the lullaby of her wife's heartbeat. But as the sweat cooled on their skin and Rachel's ragged breathing calmed, Quinn had something on her mind.

She nudged her nonresponsive wife and tried again. "Rachel?"

A kiss fell to the top of her head. "Hmmm?"

Quinn wrapped her finger in a length of curling hair and took a steadying breath. They'd never really talked about it seriously. They'd always been too engrossed in each other to give it any real thought, but the idea was there constantly there, niggling at the far corner of her brain.

"What would you think about having a baby?"

Rachel tensed and Quinn was sure the steady thump beneath her ear actually stopped before kicking back in, double time. Although Rachel did not have a cardiac arrhythmia, it was nonetheless what the doctor heard.

"A baby?" Rachel squeaked out.

It wasn't a good squeak, either.

It was the same frightened sound Santana made around garden gnomes. To her, _Gnomeo & Juliet_ was equally as scary as _The Exorcist_ was to an impressionable, twelve-year-old, Catholic Quinn of the sixth grade. Convincing Santana to be Rachel's Maid of Honor was nothing in comparison to the lengths the diva had gone to get the stubborn law student to sit down and watch that film (along with the entire _David the Gnome_television series). It was always fascinating to see Rachel melt the cold heart of the bitchy ex-Cheerio, and coerce her into doing whatever the actress wanted because for some weird reason, Santana had done a complete 180° spin from their teen years and just couldn't tell her "no" anymore. And Quinn had heard enough of this same kind of terrified whining from that movie night to know exactly how petrified Rachel was right now.

Quinn swallowed down her disappointment. "Nevermind."

Because of the horrendous mess she'd created in everyone's lives during her senior year and the deranged plan she had to get Beth back, she'd been ignoring the nagging tick of her biological clock for some time now. Nature's timer began its booming countdown shortly after the blonde's twenty-first birthday. And after two years of marriage, the sound was deafening.

A warm palm fell to her cheek and angled her face toward Rachel's. The fear in her eyes pulled at Quinn's stomach. "You're serious, I presume?"

She felt sick. She felt ashamed for wanting a baby. It was selfish, especially with the state of the world today. But that didn't change the yearning to hold a child in her arms — a child with Rachel's eyes and smile. She was so in love with her wife and couldn't wait to fall in love with an extension of her. She wanted that infectious laugh in stereo and two sets of eyes rolling at her whenever she said something dumb or inappropriate. She wanted two bodies worth of hugs and two hearts worth of love that would unconditionally own hers forever. She wanted a family.

"Forget about it." Jesus, that hurt to say. "We should sleep. You have rehearsal in the morning."

"Precisely. And you have a double at the hospital tomorrow." The chest under Quinn's head rose and fell with a heavy sigh. "We aren't in any position to have a baby right now, Quinn. We're both working nonstop. My contract with _Heart of Harthan_is for two years, and you're starting that research project with Jonas soon."

"Jonah." The correction was purely reflex.

Dr. Saulke had quickly become the father to her Russell refused to be. On recommendations from a number of her professors and supervisors, Jonah sought her out during her rounds one night at Harlem Hospital Center and propositioned her with a place on his team. Virology never occurred to her in med school, but apparently her two undergrad degrees and current residency in pediatrics was perfect for the field: it seemed many virologists chose that path in order to eradicate childhood diseases. And she'd seen so many HIV Positive kids come through the inner-city hospital that she jumped at the chance to help find a cure. Those were the cases that got to her the most and she had no idea why. What was she thinking of adding another tiny person to the global population when there were so many kids all over the world that needed tending?

"You're right. We aren't ready for a baby."

And she was. Rachel was so right. Quinn had wanted a real family all her life and now it was within reach, but Rachel was doing the right thing by smacking that dream from her grasp. It was stupid. She'd had her chance with Beth and eventually left well-enough alone, making the choice to give her daughter a better life even though it wasn't with her. She was wrong for thinking she deserved to have another shot at motherhood.

There was quiet for a while and she assumed the brunette fell asleep. One more thing she was wrong about.

"How long have you been thinking about this?"

Since their first date. Since the first time they said "I love you" and Quinn discovered how to speak those words without lying. Since Rachel accepted her marriage proposal. Since their wedding day. And every single time the admittedly self-absorbed diva would glance up at Quinn from her newest script or cup of coffee, or smile from across a room or hold her hand on the subway, looking at the blonde as if she were the only person on the planet. "Not long."

"Liar."

Quinn wanted to smile at how well Rachel knew her. Instead she bit her lip and continued playing with her wife's hair. Her wife. That would never get old. The girl she'd tortured and tried so hard to make hate her in the past was the most important thing in the world to her, and she couldn't ask for anything more.

And she wasn't. Not really. Having a child together wouldn't be more, it'd be…expanding.

Rachel wiggled lower until the two women were eye to eye, secure in each other's arms. This was enough, she thought. Rachel was enough—more than.

"You've planned this, haven't you?"

It wasn't an accusation, but the sincere interest she heard was obviously imagined. Yet, it was the trigger she needed to spew her entire blueprint for constructing their family.

"I'd carry it," she blurted. Word vomit, everywhere, and almost all in one breath. "We'd pick a donor and use your eggs—or from both of us if you wanted—and I'd carry it and be big and fat and gross and smelly and miserable all over again because I want more than anything to have a baby with you.

"You'd stay on Broadway and I'd ask Jonah to assign me to lit reviews and documentation instead of lab work. I'm the newbie and he already has so many experienced doctors on his team I'm sure it wouldn't be a problem." Quinn couldn't believe how pitiful she sounded. Truthfully, she didn't know if he would actually do that for her. However, Dr. Fabray was prepared to let that particular career defining opportunity slip away and stay a lowly pediatrician as originally planned if it meant having her family.

Rachel tucked mussed blonde hair behind Quinn's ear. "But for how long, Quinn?"

"Um, nine months. That's generally how long it takes a typical human fetus to gestate." The longest nine months of any mother's life, but still only nine months.

The wide smile she worshipped honored her with a brief appearance before vanishing into the darkness of their apartment. "I meant about work, baby. Pregnancy, then birth, then raising it? It's more than nine months, Quinn. It's years. We've barely begun our life together. I just don't think we're ready."

Petition denied. That was that.

Distraught beyond the telling of it, Quinn put on a brave face but the sorrow in her voice betrayed her. "It was a dumb idea. Things are good the way they are." It was true. But _good_ could always be _better_.

Rachel's hold tightened, preventing her from rolling over to hide the tears she had no hope of stopping. "Saying we're not ready isn't the same as saying no forever."

Not saying no didn't mean yes, either.

"I know we haven't discussed it much, but I _do_want a family with you," Rachel whispered, stroking along Quinn's cheek. "I want a hazel-eyed child running underfoot and making a mess in the kitchen while helping me fix you breakfast in bed on your birthday or our anniversary. I want sunny days pushing a stroller through Central Park. I want us on the beach at Coney Island with another set of footprints between ours in the wet sand along the shoreline."

Openly crying now, the blonde turned enough to kiss her wife's palm. "But?"

"I didn't think it'd be so soon, is all." Rachel pulled Quinn closer, tucking the taller woman's head beneath her chin. Most people wouldn't think the usually serious-minded M.D. would enjoy being held like this, but so often Quinn's world only made sense when she was wrapped up in Rachel's arms. "My original plan was to lose my virginity at the age of twenty-five on a bed of rose petals surrounded by warm candlelight. And to a boy. Of the husband variety. Not as a tipsy seventeen-year-old cramped in the backseat of a Volkswagen Beetle to an equally tipsy, if not more so, eighteen-year-old girl on a freezing winter night."

Quinn's smug chuckle was countered with a thwack to her shoulder.

"Hush it." Rachel's hand absently soothed away the sting it created. "My point is, having a child wasn't factored in as a _possibility_until much later."

"If we were older, like thirty or something, would this even be in question?"

Brown eyes looked away and Quinn had her answer. She wanted to jump up and find the bedazzled pink binder and see if having children was really "factored in" at all or if Rachel was just placating her right now. Her stomach twisted to think of all the times she'd casually brought it up and Rachel merely nodded or shrugged and said things like "someday" or "I suppose". How had they gotten so far together and not explored the possibility that children may not be in store for them? The doctor blamed her own insecurities from the Beth/Shelby debacle of her senior year. She should have been brave enough to bring it up sooner. Like before they got married.

"Why, Rach?"

"I never had a mother," she said.

They were nose to nose and the taller woman still had to strain to hear it. But once again, Shelby Corcoran had inadvertently fucked up Quinn's life. That woman should have never come back to Ohio after giving birth to Rachel. It would have spared all of them so much pain if Shelby had just stayed anonymous and gone.

"I wouldn't know where to begin, how to be one. What if I screw up?" Rachel had never sounded so insecure.

Quinn propped up on her elbow and traced her wife's face, taking care to caress those sexy beauty marks on either cheek before trailing along that strong, determined jawline. "You don't think I'm scared, too? Parenting doesn't come with a manual, baby, but your dads are amazing examples. And yeah, it'll be terrifying at times, but we'll figure it out. Together."

"Need I point out that you've spent the last few years with kids day in and day out? It's quite literally your job to know what they need and how to take care of them."

"I know how to take care of their bodies, Rachel. That doesn't mean I know how to discipline them, or make them put on pajamas and brush their teeth," she teased, running a finger down the slope of her wife's nose. Thick, kohl black eyelashes fluttered and Quinn dotted a single kiss to each closed eyelid. Her fingertip followed the curve of dark brows then back to the adorable ears that Rachel had thankfully grown in to. She remembered how big the brunette's ears had been on her small body during the transition from child to adolescent. Then she remembered the name calling: goblin, troll and Dumbo were the most common ones.

Guilt pervaded every individual thought and each firing synapse. She'd been a horrible person all in the name of pleasing others and distancing herself from the girl who made her belly flicker with a strange fire she didn't understand and couldn't afford to explore when they were younger. Rachel still made her feel that way, but now Quinn knew exactly what it was. Love. Love beyond all words in every language. Rachel was her everything, and Quinn wanted to give her everything she could. And, having done it before, she knew that a baby was probably the best thing she could ever offer the goddess lying next to her. If Rachel refused, what else did Quinn have that would be good enough for her?

"Quinn?" All deliberations of her own inadequacy were disrupted as Rachel called her to attention and studied the blonde thoroughly. She wasn't biting her lip. Her forehead was free of worry lines. And her brown eyes were hard, but clear.

Quinn wasn't sure when she'd felt more naked. Probably that night in the back of her car—before they'd taken off their clothes. Or maybe their wedding night.

"You really think we could do it?"

Her answer was immediate. "Yes." Then Quinn gave a sheepish smile and brushed her thumb over Rachel's lips. "I don't know the right way to teach them life lessons or how to be a good person. I was so weak growing up, baby. I was an awful person. I did what everyone else told me to, tried to be who they wanted me to be, and hurt so, so many people in the process. Especially you."

Rachel's eyes softened and the doctor knew she was on the verge of objecting, but she had to get through this.

"I won't be able to teach them how to be strong or to never give up or be proud of who they are no matter what. Not like you can. Like how you're still teaching me."

Tender hands found her cheeks and wiped away the tears that Quinn begged to be gone. "Luce?"

The blonde blinked. "Yeah?" It was the _very_rare occasion Rachel called her that.

Rachel inhaled deeply as if summoning her courage, but the vulnerability in her eyes made Quinn all the more nervous. "Have my baby?"

Joy. Happiness. Jubilance. Exultation of the highest degree inflated Quinn's soul and she kissed her wife with every ounce of love she had, promising her heart, mind and body to the brunette all over again. It lasted until their lungs seized, and she pulled back just enough for air, keeping her lips in contact with Rachel's.

"Yes! All of them. I'll have as many of your babies as you want." She rolled on top of Rachel, laughing and crying and kissing all at once, anxious to show this woman just how much she loved her and how committed to their family she already was.

"Wait. Babies?" Rachel groaned as a slick tongue worked down her neck.

"Mmmhmm." The pediatrician adopted the most serious tone she could muster at the moment. "Only children are just so spoiled."

Rachel huffed and playfully tried to push her off. Quinn's laughter at the rolling brown eyes carried all the fear and insecurity of earlier right out of her being, and the diva pouted. "Oh you can just bite me, Fabray."

"Gladly."

Choosing to take the words at face value, Quinn waggled her eyebrows and obliged tenfold; the gasps that followed sent them both reeling. Long moments passed while their hands found all the right places as though discovering them for the first time. There was skin and heat and connection in a way they'd never known before. But they were there, together—fingers thrusting, lips kissing and teasing—loving each other over and over.

When Rachel finally screamed into Quinn's mouth, the blonde whimpered in surrender and knew their simultaneous ending that night was merely their beginning.


	11. Tonight I'll Be Staying Here With You

******Title:** Tonight I'll Be Staying Here With You**  
****Author:** Frensayce**  
****Rating: **PG-13**  
****Pairing:** Rachel/Quinn**  
****Spoilers:** Everything-ish.**  
****Disclaimers:** Glee isn't mine. But this universe kinda is. I guess.**  
****Summary: **Rachel's home. Unbeta'd.

* * *

Rachel sagged against the wall, staring at the ceiling in hopes of drying out her tears. There was a crack in the corner. Not a big one, just a small squiggly line stemming from the crown molding. She could probably paint over it; the hallway could use a new color anyway. The beige sandstone tone just wasn't cutting it anymore. Although, she thought, it could be something serious, something deep within the structure that maybe a fresh coat wouldn't cover. She supposed it was to be expected: the house was ancient. Built at the turn of the 20th Century, it was a shining example of classic New York elitist architecture and an emblem of displaced Hollywood and all its glamour. Yes, it was extravagant, and had been gutted and renovated more than once since its longest inhabitant had passed away in 2003. But it was cozy, somehow, warm. Once it came on the market six years ago, Quinn had gone above and beyond in getting Rachel something the actress had only joked about. Now, the diva resided in the brownstone Katharine Hepburn called home for sixty years and had the same communal backyard once shared by Steven Sondheim. Except for that craggily line running overhead, and the millions it'd cost them, living in Turtle Bay Gardens was perfect. Rachel had dreamed of success when younger, but never did she picture living like this. However, she wouldn't have imagined marrying her high school bully, either.

She sighed and looked down at the herringbone oak flooring. That wasn't fair. Name-calling and petty jealousy aside, Quinn hadn't hurt her as much as people thought. Finn Hudson and his private verbal abuse, degradation, and condescension did far more damage to her than some snarky comments and a few lewd drawings. Some of the things said by Kurt or Mercedes cut deeper than the former Cheerio's snide but tired insults. Maybe it was because they knew each other before Lucy became Quinn. Maybe it was because Rachel knew that in reality, Quinn's problems had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with the blonde herself. In fact, regarding what Rachel deemed the worst of the bullying—the slushies—Quinn never was involved. She never personally threw one of those icy drinks in Rachel's face, ever. And it wasn't like a fellow student, head cheerleader or not, had any control over what the entire student body chose to do and the faculty chose to ignore.

Quinn Fabray the bully hurt her less than Quinn Fabray-Berry, wife and partner, and nowhere near as much as Dr. Quinn Fabray, M.D., the medical _wunderkind _turned superhero.

Once upon a time, the blonde had been her white knight, saving her from the Hell of Lima and devoting herself to Rachel alone. Now she belonged to the world. If not by name, then certainly by deed. The problem was that Rachel needed rescuing, healing. And Quinn hadn't been there.

But she was here now. Here in their—Rachel's—bed, soothing and singing their children to sleep, savior from the storm.

How dare she?

How dare she manifest out the black and cloudy sky to be the responsible, loving parent she was before? How dare she sleep in the bed she gave up, the bed Rachel cried herself to sleep in more often than not? And how fucking dare she presume to think Rachel wouldn't object or be angry? What in the name of Streisand what the woman thinking?

Knowing Quinn? She probably wasn't. As a doctor, Quinn was thoughtful and logical: she followed procedure and clinical methodology. As a person, she was the opposite. Quinn reacted from the gut, relying on instinct instead of practicality. Most of the time that instinct was borne from fear and only provided defensive measures. Quinn was purely fight or flight to the worst degree.

The brunette ran both hands through her hair. Was that what happened to them? Was it because her wife was so afraid that she turned harsh then retreated when things got harder? What could she possibly be so damned scared of?

Rachel slid down the wall, holding her head in her hands. She didn't know. And part of that not knowing was her own fault. She'd chosen ignorance. Marriage counseling was her idea, but she wasn't as active in it as Quinn was. She figured because of that, because Quinn was working on herself by talking out her work stress, they wouldn't have to work so hard on _them_.

Her own hubris surprised her. Agreeing to one session every other week with Dr. Coe, but participating only when prompted or outright provoked wasn't as good as Quinn's weekly individual appointments. Couple's Therapy lasted only six months with Rachel attending half as many meetings as Quinn. The dark side of her assumed her wife and Dr. Coe were talking about how sick of Rachel Quinn was, and how she wanted out of the marriage.

Deep down, she knew that wasn't true.

They ended things because neither could keep living like they were. They'd become less than strangers and both were miserable. How ironic: Rachel felt worse now than ever before. She wondered, did Quinn feel the same?

Pulling herself together, she stood and peeked into the bedroom again. Joshua was on the far left end, hugging the pillow that used to be Quinn's. He and Daniel were back-to-back, and the larger boy was curled into as small of a ball as possible. Which wasn't very small at all. Quinn was next. On her back with an arm flung over her head and as beautiful as ever. So damn beautiful.

Her heart hurdled over the fence of anger and pain entrapping it. Pieces of her hated herself for still being so in love. The rest of her hated herself for not doing more when she had the chance. For not yielding to their relationship completely. Quinn was too pretty. Too confident, too intelligent, and too much everything to be with someone like Rachel, and the singer had thought that from their beginning. She never wholly gave in or lowered her guard for fear that one day Quinn would come to her senses, realize she could do better, and leave.

Just like everyone else did.

Shelby gave her up. Twice. Finn took her on a nightmare of a relationship with more ups and downs than a rollercoaster. Puck was like a drifter, "slumming it" with her for a few days before moving on. Jesse used her then abused her, and she stupidly went back to him anyway. His return to Lima wasn't by choice and her companionship served to bolster his ego and get him back into the show choir life only so he could stay behind in New York while New Directions took their 12th place trophy home to Ohio. Then came her mistake of Finn. Again.

Much of the time her own parents were too caught up in themselves to pay teenaged Rachel the attention she craved. She was a novelty baby, born because two men wanted to prove people wrong and show the world homosexuals raised heterosexual children. They loved her. They were good fathers and set appropriate limits when they weren't spoiling their little princess. But the disappointed faces they wore the day Rachel formally introduced Quinn as her girlfriend was permanently etched on her brain. Yes, eventually they'd accepted her and her sexuality with open arms. But after twenty years of marriage and three children, they still never fully warmed to Quinn.

That was another thing. Rachel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed but with a thumbnail snared between two rows of teeth. Her dads didn't know about the divorce. None of their family and friends knew. Except Santana. Who had yet to give her the names of good attorneys who could handle the divorce of Rachel Berry with discretion. She frowned. It'd been a few days since they'd seen each other, but she needed to remember to ask the lawyer about it soon. She didn't want to prolong this ordeal more than necessary. But, she sighed, looking at the sleeping persons who powered the very beating of her heart, Rachel wondered if she really should file for divorce at all. Guilt roiled in her chest as Tana again came to mind. No, she had to go through with this.

She checked her phone. She'd been lingering out here for almost an hour. It was time for bed. Morning would come soon and pull her from whatever rest she could hope to get, then drag her away to a studio across town for a promotional session with _Vanity Fair_'s best photographer. Woo and fucking hoo.

Rachel shook her head and trekked into her room, pointedly avoiding looking at the bed. Her path was a direct cut to the walk-in closet/antique dressing room. There was a stipulation in the deed that they couldn't touch that room for anything other than upkeep. It was an unnecessary condition, Rachel wouldn't have messed with Kate the Great's private vanity even with a gun to her head. She slogged into the vast space, closing the door before flipping on the light. Strangely, noise was not something that would wake the bodies in her bed: Rachel could (and on occasion had) run scales in the same room as the slumbering coterie without disturbing them in the slightest, but light was a different story. The Fabray-Berry tribe needed as much darkness as possible or else—

"Mama?"

Damn it. The woman blew out a huge breath and made quick work of changing into pajamas then shut off the light. She stepped out and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark. Ava was whimpering a little bit. Rachel soon focused on little legs pushing back the heavy comforter with lazy kicks as the child sat up, pouting. She moved quickly, reaching the bed in record time. "What's wrong, sweetie?"

Ava shook her head. Tangles of wavy brown hair danced over her shoulders and her pout deepened. "Hafta potty."

Rachel almost chuckled. Instead she helped the little girl out of bed and accompanied her to the master bathroom upon the silent request via the small hand gripping her own. Ava was too old to need any help, but she didn't always like being alone. The mother could only imagine how many friends she'd be dragging in with her to the sanctuary of school restrooms ten years from now. Actually, she didn't want to imagine ten years from now. The boys were difficult enough; she didn't want to think about what a teenaged Ava would be like. Hopefully nothing like Rachel herself. She doubted she'd be so lucky.

Mission successful, Ava sprinted out of the en suite and launched herself onto the bed. Right next to Quinn. Rachel finished her bedtime routine and followed to tuck Ava in, watching the doctor turn onto her side, facing their daughter and thankfully still asleep. She wasn't ready to look into those hazel eyes again. There was no telling how either would react to it, and the diva was too tired and drained to handle the inevitable fallout right now.

Ava scooted closer to her mommy and patted the free space next to her four-year-old body. "M'kay. There's for you."

Dark brows climbed to Rachel's hairline. Of course Ava expected her to join the cuddle party. The innocent child had no way of knowing how complicated the situation was and how much worse such behavior would make it all. It was a fire Rachel couldn't afford fanning.

"Mama's going to sleep down the hall tonight, sweetie."

"In _Tía's _room?"

Rachel nodded. The guest room was always at the ready in case Santana should randomly appear and plan to stay the night. It hadn't been used in months, however. Not because Tana hadn't slept over, but because she'd been staying in Rachel's bed.

"Yeah. In _Tía's_ room."

"Nooooo." Ava's tone wasn't whiny at all. It was authoritative and a little patronizing. Great, she sounded like Quinn. "I want you to stay here." She tapped the mattress quite deliberately.

She glanced at Quinn, then back to Ava. Pathetic puppy dog eyes shone with forced tears and her little chin quivered. They were in such trouble when she got older. Slamming doors, angry words, and persuasive apologies flashed in her mind. Ava was her exact duplicate. They were doomed. It was times like these that the actress really disliked being psychic. Unfortunately, none of it stopped her from acquiescing and crawling into bed next to her daughter.

Ava flopped onto her belly, her hand already curling into her mama's hair as Rachel folded in, lying on her side. Within moments, the toddler was in dreamland, abandoning the singer to smooth her fingers through baby soft locks as a means of absolutely not looking at Quinn. Easier said than done.

Her gaze deviated to the woman in the middle of the bed. Only the petite body of her youngest child separated them. She longed to reach over and brush the silvery gold tresses away from Quinn's forehead, but she caught her wayward hand back just in time. No. Too much too soon.

She wasn't ready for this. And she honestly didn't know if she ever would be again.

Yawning, Rachel settled under the covers, her hand now resting on Ava's back. The little girl squirmed and turned her head toward Quinn, but Rachel left her hand where it lay, waiting for Ava to calm.

She didn't. There was wiggling and whimpering and before Rachel could attempt to soothe her daughter, a warm palm landed atop her hand.

Although very much asleep, Quinn intuitively stretched out to comfort their baby. The side effect was metaphoric third degree burns searing Rachel's skin. She couldn't move. Couldn't pull away. Couldn't stop her fingers from interlacing with her wife's.

So far from insignificant, the touch both cooled her anger and melted the ice in which she'd tried to pack away her heart. Rachel closed her eyes and a tear leaked sideways, down to the pillow. Quinn gave an involuntary twitch in her sleep and slender fingers squeezed Rachel's. God Himself couldn't stop her from squeezing back.

Entwined, their hands rose and fell with each breath Ava took while their sons snored on. Whether or not she filed for divorce, whether or not they simply stayed separated but still legally wed, whether some sort of miracle occurred and they found a way to forgive and try again, it was clear to Rachel that they had no choice but to remain in each other's lives forever. The three sleeping souls in bed with them braided into the lifeline she and the Quinn were tied together with for eternity. Yet, if this was the only way to re-tether herself to Quinn, especially considering her behavior since the doctor had moved out, she'd take it. It was probably the best she could hope for.


	12. Early Morning Strangers

Thank you all so much for the reviews, favorites, et cetera. It really means a lot, so thank you again.

As always, Glee is not mine.

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Consciousness came not by means of an alarm clock, but from a ringing phone. Which didn't make sense because her cell was in the pocket of the coat she left in the office last night. A song played over the sound of the morning rain beating against the windows for all of five seconds before something silenced it, leaving the phone and the bedroom quiet except for the undisturbed breathing of sleeping children. Quinn was not so lucky.

Belatedly, she recognized the song. Unless Josh had finally taken a liking to Streisand, she doubted he brought his phone to bed with him last night. Her breath hitched and the warmth she now felt against her hand spread up her arm to her neck and face. Fingers, unnaturally still, were interlocked with hers. And the fear she was dreaming prevented her from peeking to see how wrong she probably was. A sigh from the body so near carried to her ears and Quinn held tighter, refusing to let go. She let go once, she wasn't going to do it again.

Opening her eyes, she drank in the sight of two brunettes next to her: one blissfully asleep, the other pretending to be. Rachel's face was buried in the pillow, forcing her neck at an awkward angle. The doctor frowned. If she kept that up she'd need a chiropractor. Quinn squeezed the fingers nestled between hers and tugged a few millimeters. She knew Rachel was awake, and she knew Rachel was aware of their contact.

There was the rustle of a pillowcase as Rachel turned to face Quinn. Her brow was pinched, and her lips pressed together in a thin line. The blonde watched a shield drop over that pained face, and brown eyes opened to meet hers.

Rachel still took her breath away.

The salty sting behind her eyes went overlooked, as did the heavy lump jammed in her throat. Yet a faint smile played at her lips and she chanced another squeeze of the hand in hers. Then she noticed something that made her heart plummet.

Rachel's ring finger was bare.

Again their gazes locked, and Quinn read the grief staring back at her. Rachel retracted her hand, pushed up, and got out of bed. She walked straight to the master bath without a word or a backward glance. The lock clicked, and the doctor found herself spiraling into a maelstrom of misery. She really was too late.

Carefully, she climbed over Ava and sat in the spot her estranged wife just vacated. Her palm fell to the warm pillow before her face did. She collected as much of Rachel's scent as possible, knowing it'd be the last instance to do so. It was time to go.

Quinn dragged a hand through her recently shorn blonde hair. It was basically the same cut she'd gotten before her senior year of high school. Dr. Coe's advice to get herself in order and figure out who the hell she now was somehow translated as getting a haircut to go with it. In the immortal words of Santana Lopez, "change your hair, change your life." She looked behind her at the three children sleeping on—her reasons for being—then stood. She didn't want to leave like this. She wanted to be here when they woke, but the icy demeanor rolling off Rachel made it clear that that wasn't going to happen.

Fixing the covers over Ava, the mother smiled and shook her head at her kids. Danny was hugging Josh like a teddy bear while her daughter unconsciously put the free space around her to good use and sprawled, spread eagle on her belly. Quinn's hands took advantage of the pockets in her borrowed sweats as she continued watching them. Staring at a lover while they slept usually bordered on creepy, but watching her children inhale and exhale in peaceful slumber was fundamental to her own survival. On nights she and Rachel fought, before she wandered to the couch in her office, Quinn made her way upstairs to stand in their doorways, looking in on them.

It could be excused as a mother fretting or checking that they really were asleep on school nights, but it was just her finding solace in the knowledge that they were safe. In modern times, child mortality rates in developed countries were miniscule. But it didn't mean that as an on-call, emergency room pediatrician Dr. Fabray hadn't seen victims of SIDS and the devastated parents left behind. It didn't mean she hadn't watched small bodies wither away from AIDS and other HIV complications every time she'd gone to Africa with Jonah for research or to oversee administration of the new vaccine thereafter his death. Seeing her children rest so peacefully, healthy and whole, was everything to her. They were real and alive and safe and so help her God she'd do whatever it took to keep it that way.

A kind of serenity washed over her. If she had to pick between her wife and their children, the kids would win every time. Maybe she and Rachel couldn't be married anymore, but the doctor could learn to be a good mother again. She could still have her family.

The bathroom door swung open and Quinn turned to see the woman in question emerge. Wearing a terrycloth robe and towel drying her hair, Rachel didn't bother looking at her as she headed straight for the walk-in vanity. No acknowledgement whatsoever, except for a muttered, "Coffee should be done by now. I'll see you downstairs."

The dismissal was crystal clear. Sparing one last glance at perhaps the only good things to come from her marriage, Quinn left the bedroom, sure to close the door on her way out.

By the time Rachel made it to the kitchen, Quinn was dressed in her clothes from yesterday and nursing a cup of fresh coffee. Automated appliances were beautiful things.

The diva sauntered into the room with such chutzpah one could have sworn she was in character and making her first appearance on stage. Quinn smiled into her drink. Rachel was playing up her confidence, but was just as shaken by all this as the blonde.

That all-powerful swagger faltered upon reaching the coffee pot. Quinn wondered if setting out Rachel's favorite mug was the smartest thing to do. Dishes were Josh's domain, and although the short woman was constantly rearranging the cupboards to work in her favor, he still put the coffee mugs on the top shelf. It was his and Quinn's little prank. The boy thought it was funny to watch his mama struggle to reach so high, while Quinn thought the sight of her wife's pink tongue peeking out the side of her mouth and the furrowed forehead Rachel wore each time was adorable and a little bit sexy. It gave the taller woman the excuse to place her hand on the small of Rachel's back and lean into her while being chivalrous and retrieving the black ceramic mug. It was special, the kind that revealed an image when filled with a hot beverage: a gold star, of course.

She watched Rachel snatch it off the countertop and stare at it as though mulling over whether or not to use it. The internal debate didn't last long and she poured her morning fix, adding non-dairy creamer and sugar while a shiny five-pointed star appeared.

Quinn was nervous, stumped. Should she break the heavy tension settling around them? Or was it best to wait for Rachel to take the lead?

The ringing of the house phone did it for them. Who the Hell was calling at six-thirty in the morning? The comscreen next to the microwave lit up and both watched it blink Santana's name as the call went to voicemail. Rachel's head was bowed and her hands braced on the edge of the counter. Her body was rigid and tight. Was she really that upset with Quinn, or was there something more that provoked the sudden shift in her composure?

The doctor couldn't stand it anymore. She was used to getting things done and finding solutions, one way or another. This silence served neither them, nor their situation.

"They'll be happy to see you." She saw Rachel stiffen more. Wrong thing to say. Make it better. "The kids, I mean. They missed you last night."

The diva turned and her fiery eyes burned through Quinn. "Is that a dig? Are you trying to tell me I'm a bad mother for not being home sooner? Well, fuck you, Fabray."

Quinn's lids fell shut and her shoulders drooped. Why on earth did she think this was going to work when they couldn't be civil? "No." She sighed and looked into angry brown orbs. "It wasn't a dig, and I'm sorry if that's how it sounded." She hoped her words conveyed her sincerity. "You're an amazing mother, Rachel."

Better than Quinn turned out to be in the last two years. "You're more than I could have asked for to raise our children."

"Stop it," Rachel said. Her voice was quiet, but hard.

The blonde nodded her understanding. That last comment crossed a boundary, but she wasn't trying to patronize the actress. "I'm sorry."

"That's twice in thirty seconds. Tell me, doctor. What makes it so easy to apologize now? When did you learn how to say you're fucking sorry?"

Rachel hardly ever swore aloud. Hearing that kind of profanity spew from her sweet mouth was disconcerting for Quinn. It was one thing to say it in the bedroom, but not outside of it. Twice. That wasn't like Rachel at all.

Still, did she really deserve it?

The Catholic in her said yes. And was ready to hand Rachel a cat o' nine tails whip with glass beaded tips to beat the sin out of her. But the bitch bristling inside her geared for a fight.

Christ, she didn't want to fight.

"I'm s—"

"Don't," Rachel fiercely cut her off. "You don't get to say that again."

Quinn shook her head and raised her hands in defense, coffee mug an all. "I'm seeing Dr. Coe. He's been helping me…" She didn't want to say "deal" because it implied she was hurting. While it was very much true, she knew it wasn't something Rachel wanted to hear right now. "He's helping me examine our—my—problems and identify my feelings and other underlying issues."

Look at her, finally learning how to talk about her emotions like a big girl. Steven would be proud. Hell, _she _was a little proud.

Rachel scoffed and turned her gaze upward in disbelief. "For once, can you forgo the detached rhetoric and talk to me like a human being?"

Oh.

Quinn instantly deflated. She thought Rachel would be happy she'd learned how to communicate the way she'd failed to do when they first started marriage counseling. Idiot. She didn't know what to do, and now Rachel's finger was aimed straight at her.

"If you dare say the words 'I'm sorry' again, I will _throw _you out this time. Understand?"

She nodded once more, looking down into the utter blackness of her coffee and wishing it held the guidance she needed right now. But, no. There was nothing.

"Good. Let's start again, shall we?" The diva didn't wait for a response. "Why are you here?"

Okay; objective questions. Quinn could do that. She could be an adult and explain her presence. "Josh texted me when the sirens went off last night. I came over and found them in my office, under the desk. Danny wasn't…coping well."

The brunette quickly spun away and downed her drink. The gold star mug was rinsed and set aside for a later boost of caffeine. Quinn knew the abrupt change of attitude and positioning had everything to do with Rachel's inability to handle Daniel's "episodes". Although she wanted to tear in to her for it a little, the doctor knew it wouldn't do any good. Rachel never talked about why she was so averse to dealing with the trials of parenting a child with Asperger's Syndrome, but was always quick to point out when Quinn wasn't doing something right. The singer babied their son as a way not to deal. She let him get away with some of the worst behavior when he was younger, claiming he didn't know any better. The blonde had wasted so much breath arguing that AS didn't allow him to escape punishment for hitting Josh or other children when he was angry. Nor did it protect him from being reprimanded for throwing objects across rooms, or purposely breaking things that weren't his. He wasn't exempt from discipline. She once gave him a time-out on the 82nd floor observatory of the Empire State Building. Passersby found it funny and cute to see his sniffling, stuttered promise to "be a listening boy now, Mommy."

Rachel had been mortified, holding a teary eyed Joshua with a bright red hand print staining his face. The then five-year-old Daniel could pack quite the wallop. Quinn had been livid but remained calm, talking to him and explaining what he did wrong and why he couldn't behave that way. The movie star wandered off with Josh and wouldn't even look at her wife or son until they got home. Three days after that Santana Lopez, acting on behalf of the Fabray-Berry family, filed an injunction and demanded a gag order against the united American Media Association and any freelancers, making it illegal for pictures or rumors about their offspring to be printed, published, or posted on the internet. If private individuals did so, the tabloids and or web domains were responsible for removing such content. Much like when policed its site for copyright infringement, today's media had the choice of voluntarily censoring itself, or being court ordered to do so. A lawsuit and possible criminal prosecution lay in their future if they didn't comply. And, so far, no one had the brio to go up against someone as popular and beloved as America's Sweetheart, Rachel Berry. She may not have been able to handle Daniel particularly well, but she'd fight tooth and nail to protect him and his siblings.

Hazel eyes took in the brunette with fresh perspective. No, she didn't always know how to show it, but Rachel loved their son unconditionally. Knowing each of them would go to the ends of the earth for their children was a comfort in this uncomfortable limbo of marital discord. If not wives, they were still parents together. And had to stay that way. Quinn needed that and she'd do whatever Rachel asked to have it.

"I was going to stay on the couch, but they wanted to cuddle. So, I'm apologizing," she hurried to finish as soon as she heard Rachel's deep intake of breath. "I'm apologizing for taking your bed. That's all." Saying "your" instead of "our" yanked at her heart, but it was necessary. And a fact.

Rachel wiped her hands on her jeans. Her really tight and form-defining jeans. The blonde finally surveyed the body she'd overlooked earlier. Sweet Lord, the woman looked good. Exhaustion was evident on her face, but her figure was fit and every bit reminiscent of the body Quinn swore devotion to in high school. Rachel was like Demi Moore had been in her forties: hotter than she'd been as a younger woman. She shook herself out of her appreciation of Rachel's curvature once she realized the woman was speaking.

"I can accept that. And," she paused as though her next words were sickening to say. "Thank you. For being here with them. I hadn't planned to be out so late."

Quinn knew an opening when she saw one. "Can I ask what you were doing? I'm only curious, not trying to be confrontational." Damn, Rachel didn't want her talking like that anymore.

"Working. I wrapped a new album last night." There was no joy in that statement, which was odd: Rachel always got excited about recording.

"Congratulations." Quinn's smile was small, but genuine. "That's really great for you."

The singer bobbed her head once. All was quiet again, and Rachel still wasn't looking at her. Maybe that made it easier for her. Quinn figured that was the end of the conversation. She'd have to apologize to the kids later for leaving before they woke. If she was lucky, Rachel would help soften the blow for them.

Quinn finished her coffee and walked toward the sink, toward Rachel, with measured steps. She planned to set the empty mug in the sink, but her arms weren't long enough to reach it unless the smaller woman moved a little to the right. So she stretched as best she could, afraid of touching her wife for fear of upsetting her. She held back a sigh. How had they come to this? How had they gotten so off track?

The mug settled in the stainless steel basin, soundless. Success. She retracted her arm slowly, not willing to risk spooking the woman she wasn't sure she could walk away from again. However, she had to find the strength to do so. It was clear she wasn't welcome to stay.

"Where have you been, Quinn?"

Air shuttled out of her lungs at the sound of her name coming from her wife's mouth. She caught the underlying pain in the whispered question. Chiefly, she caught what Rachel was really asking.

Abandoning rationale and her instinct to defend herself and actions wasn't easy, but she did it. "I got lost, Rach," she said quietly. "I got so lost. Caught up in unimportant things and forgot how to see what really matters."

Every piece of her was screaming to touch Rachel. To even place a hand on her arm and just feel her warm skin would have placated the starving soul inside her. She didn't. The blonde waited, ready to walk whatever path Rachel charted. Quinn studied the woman's profile, frowning when Rachel closed her eyes and brought a hand to her brow in attempt to rub away the visible tension plaguing her. The normally strident singer folded in to herself, arms wrapped around her middle.

Turning to lean against the sink was the only thing Quinn could think to do. It provided the distance they both needed, small though it was. Like so often before, the two women faced opposite directions, never seeing the same things at the same time in the same way.

She swallowed a sigh, berating herself for thinking this could work. Then came the exquisite weight of Rachel's forehead pressing against her shoulder and heated breath on her skin, bared by her tank top. Quinn's eyelids sealed shut and her heart miscounted its natural cadence. Five months without seeing or speaking to each other, and now they were touching. It may have been only in that one position, and in a place that was far from romantic or intimate, but it meant the world to the emotionally stunted doctor.

"You don't know how much I hate you right now." The Broadway star's voice regained its vigor.

Quinn suppressed the well of tears forming behind her eyes. Holding back the rest of her hurt wasn't as simple. "Almost as much as I hate myself."

Because there was no way any one person could match such vast loathing for anyone or anything else, present company included. Rachel didn't possess the capacity necessary for containing that amount of abhorrence. Yes, she likely hated Quinn with nearly all of her heart, but there was too much love taking up residence there to leave vacancy for the kind of detestation Quinn deserved. Or so she hoped.

Hot tears scorched down her arm as Rachel's distress fell to fair-toned skin. Quinn was still scared to move, to provide comfort like her titled dictated. She was Rachel's _wife_. It was her job to take care of the woman beside her, not leave her to navigate this emotional mess on her own.

She was just as lost as Quinn. But would she accept an offer of guidance, of a companion to join in the journey through this Hell? The doctor had no cure for the cancer eating away at their marriage, but maybe they could face its death together with dignified resignation. Maybe they could be less than the couple they used to be, but more than the unfamiliar persons they'd become.

"This isn't fair."

"I know."

"You don't get to come here and expect everything to be okay."

Honestly, Quinn didn't think that at all. She came to be with the kids. She'd hoped for a chance just to talk to Rachel. What she did expect, however, were tears and recriminations, blame and possibly a slap to the face or small fists beating against her chest in fury. The diva had done all those things before. But this quiet animosity was new. After twenty-five years, Rachel still surprised her.

"I know," she said again.

Rachel chuckled without an ounce of humor. "Do you know what the worst of this is?" She pulled back, but averted her gaze. "I don't really hate you. I want to so, so badly. But I can't. I don't know how. I've tried, and all it does is make me sad."

At this point, Quinn hated herself enough for the both of them.

She failed her so many ways. Redemption wasn't anywhere in her future but the hope they could once day forgive each other dwelled within her.

The weight of Rachel against her fell away, and the taller woman pivoted to follow. Her left hand slid over Rachel's, still gripping the counter. She skimmed over the tan line from the absent wedding band. She was a fool. She shouldn't be trying to fix this if Rachel really wanted no part of her anymore. Yet there was something inside Quinn that doubted that, telling her it wasn't true.

"Why haven't you filed, yet?" she asked.

Rachel shook her head with a rueful smile. "Because Santana hasn't found a lawyer she, quote, "won't have to shank to keep their mouth shut about a celebrity split." Nice, huh?"

Quinn sucked in her cheeks, not about to mouth off about that being complete bullshit.

Attorney-client privilege in divorce was only negated if the lawyer reasonably believed a criminal act that would result in death or serious injury to an individual was likely to occur. How might she know this? Because she looked in to it months ago. Either one of them could file for separation without a representing attorney, and Quinn had never planned to contest it. The only things they _might _need lawyers for were determining joint-custody and the splitting of assets. Santana Lopez, J.D., was feeding her best friend lies. Why?

"Rachel?" Her thumb traced over her wife's naked finger, her own ring flickering in the overhead lighting of the kitchen. The brunette didn't pull away and she took it as a good sign. "Do you really want to go through with this?"

Watery brown eyes swept over her face. "Yes." Rachel sighed then looked at their hands. "And no."

Quinn wanted so much to hold her. She wanted to scream, too. The soaring of her heart at hearing "no" was short lived. "I don't. I want to make this, make _us_, work again. Like we used to."

Rachel retreated and busied herself with another cup of coffee. "We can't go back, Quinn. Innovated as our world is, time travel remains ensconced in the realm of science fiction."

"Then let's start over." The words rushed out more forcefully than intended. "I know we can't actually turn back time or anything, but could we…" she trailed off, suddenly unsure how to say what she felt despite her progress. Steven Coe was a therapist, not a miracle worker. Quinn inwardly smirked. Oh, his new name was soooo "Annie Sullivan." But that would make her Helen Keller. In a way, she was. She'd been deaf, dumb, and blind to their problems for a while, but something had clicked and she finally connected the dots to see how the image she and Rachel presented was so different from how they truly were.

"Could we try again? Try being in each other's lives?" She bit her lip and tentatively raised a hand to touch Rachel again, then thought better of it. "Even if divorce is what it comes to, what you want, I still want to be there. For you, and the kids."

Ten seconds of silence from Rachel lit a panic in Quinn's chest. She was about to get desperate. "It's been hell not talking to you. Not seeing y—"

"Then why the Hell didn't you call? Why didn't you do something?" In full-on angry, scorned woman mode, Rachel advanced on her. "You could've called. Told me yourself you wanted to see the kids. Instead you fell off the grid for months! I would've worked with you, Quinn, just like I've been trying to do for years. I would've been overjoyed to get you back in their lives—back in mine!

"But no. You had _Santana _do it for you. Do you know how much that hurt? That not only did you want out of our marriage but that you wanted to be rid of me so badly that you had to block me out completely? Do you know what it's like to think your wife doesn't want to admit you exist?" Rachel was shouting and flailing about, her coffee splattering on the pristine linoleum flooring.

Yes, Quinn knew exactly how that felt because that's how she'd thought Rachel wanted it. One note of the angry rant jumped out at her, though. "S _told _me to leave you alone. She said talking to you after the months it took me to get my shit together enough to even pick up the phone would have hurt you more. That you wanted nothing to do with me. That you weren't ready and might never be." Her hands ran through her hair and locked behind her head, her elbows pointing outward.

"Don't blame this on Tana!" The vehemence in Rachel's words shocked her.

"You could have called, too," she said, doing her best to stay calm. She didn't want to fight, but it seemed that's all they knew how to do anymore.

"Sure. We both know how well that would have gone. I probably would've interrupted you and whatever slut of a grad student made it to your bed. Must be a nice change from fucking at the lab!"

Quinn whipped sharp eyes to her wife, the woman she'd stayed faithful to since the age of eighteen. The distrust in those words cut her deeper than if Rachel jabbed a kitchen knife in her stomach. "Is that what you think those late nights were?" Her calm was rapidly dwindling. After all these years, _why _did Rachel constantly think Quinn was some adulterous monster?

"If you take nothing else away from our relationship, if you kick me out the door and refuse to have one fucking thing to do with me ever again, know that I never _touched _anyone but you. That in my whole life, you're the only person I didn't cheat on."

She was tired of cycling through this argument again. She pushed off the sink and stalked toward Rachel. Grabbing her wrists and pinning her against the refrigerator was all too easy, and the smaller woman looked more angry than afraid. The coffee mug bounced and thudded on the floor, but she paid it no mind, too focused on Rachel. Their position allowed for the closeness Quinn needed, but they weren't touching any place other than where she held Rachel captive. "You've been the only one, do you understand?"

No answer.

Her gripped tightened and Rachel glared at her. "Do you understand?" she repeated. "You are the only person I've been in love with, the only one I've ever _made _love with. The one I promised all of me to, for better or worse, 'til death do us fucking part and all the things that so obviously no longer apply to us, but I _never _cheated. There was only you." Quinn's voice lost its harshness, defeated. "There's still only you."

Rachel struggled in her grasp and Quinn released her quickly. She hadn't hurt her. Those delicate wrists weren't even red, nor would they bruise.

The brunette shoved Quinn away until she connected with the edge of the opposite countertop. Granite was a great choice for the décor and practicality of the kitchen, but a bitch on her back. There wasn't time to appreciate the searing fire racing through her nerve endings, however, because Rachel followed and hastily locked her mouths together. It was hard and biting, and Rachel's tongue stabbed its way inside to find the blonde's, but Quinn gave as good as she got.

Her hands flew to Rachel's ass and she twisted them around, tossing the furious woman on top of the smooth stone surface of the counter. Jean clad legs snaked around her immediately and thighs of bronze threatened to collapse her diaphragm. Between that and the punishing kisses, Quinn was lightheaded and seeing spots behind her closed eyes.

Rachel's hands were like claws in her hair, nails scouring her scalp. Sex hadn't played a large part in their marriage in recent years. It was sort of standard for birthdays and their anniversary, but didn't necessarily happen. Spontaneity faded from their vocabulary. The last time they made love had been a goodbye, a farewell to what they once were. But now, with Rachel's legs trapping her and her own hands ripping at the navy blue top hiding the brunette away, Quinn was consumed by the primal need and passion for her wife. Rachel was hers. She was going to prove it.

She broke their kiss to nip the actress's chin then up and down her jawline. She pushed Rachel's shirt up to reveal the browned skin of her stomach. Her mouth dropped to that delicious plane of muscles, tearing at stupid Levi's jeans while two hands wrapped in her hair and hauled her back into a rough kiss. There was nothing sweet or loving about this. They were wounding each other the only way they knew. Their hips jerked forward and Quinn forced a finger into her wife, who grunted and tried to open her legs all the more.

"Do it. _Hard. _" Teeth sliced into her earlobe and it seemed like Rachel was going to pull a Mike Tyson and bite the damned thing clear off.

Quinn roared and thrust another finger inside the growing wetness, pounding away with everything she had as per the diva's command.

"Hey, you guys want to hear a cool fact about lions?"

Mother Hell.

The blonde wrenched her head toward the doorway, ready to order the teen away, but no words would come. Rachel took care of it.

"Daniel! Out! NOW!"

If her ear wasn't bleeding from the bite, it certainly had to be now. Dear God, that powerhouse voice just about ruptured her eardrum.

Danny jumped at the shouting and ran out of the room, whimpering like a kicked puppy.

Shit.

Quinn pulled out more much gently than she'd entered, and was quick to spring away. Space, she needed space. Needed to get away from Rachel. It could have been the splash of ice water their son hurled onto their fervor, but it was more to do with the yelling. Had she not choked, she knew the same words would have come out of her mouth. But not in that tone.

Since having them, she and Rachel had taken great care not to yell at their children. They were firm and spoke in measured anger, yes. But they never yelled. "What was that?"

Clothing straightened, Rachel hopped off the counter and eyed the back door leading to the community garden outside. No, she did not get to avoid this.

"Answer me," Quinn demanded. "What the hell just happened?"

Rachel grabbed a towel to clean up the spilled coffee. Quinn was so pissed she was ready to steal that mug away and chuck it at the wall.

"Nothing. It was nothing. Simply displaced anger wrongly interpreted as sexual excitement. I apologize for not recognizing my rage at you for what it really is."

"That's not what I mean and you know it." Quinn hissed through her teeth, worked up in multiple ways. "You had no reason to shout at him like that."

"Are you suggesting we should have continued with him in the room, or that you wouldn't have done the same thing if you hadn't frozen up?"

. And no, she couldn't swear to that statement. She watched the manic swipe of the dish towel on the floor and hurried to the sink to wash her hands clean of Rachel. She was done with this bitching.

"You need to apologize."

"For telling him to leave and avoid witnessing the two of us get in a good, angry fuck for old times' sake?" The sneer in her voice was noticeable.

"No." Quinn opened a drawer and pulled out a clean towel to dry her hands, anything to stop from strangling Rachel. "For how you said it. You just scared the shit out of him. Did you see his face?"

"I was startled, Quinn."

"So was I, _Rachel_," she countered. "But I didn't scream at him."

Rachel threw the dirty towel at her. She caught it, barely. "Of course you didn't. You stood there and said nothing, like always."

"Know what?" The doctor reveled in the wet slap of the towel against the metal of the sink. "Forget it. I'm going to check on him while you figure out how to tell him you're sorry. Then I'll spare you the trying task of kicking me out."

Quinn stormed out of the kitchen, enraged and suddenly anxious for nine o'clock and the courthouse to open. She was going to file for this goddamned divorce today.


	13. Take Me For A Little While

**Title:** Take Me For A Little While  
**Author:** Frensayce  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Pairing:** Rachel/Quinn  
**Spoilers:** Everything?  
**Disclaimers:** Glee is not mine.

Wow! Thank you all so much for the reviews, alerts, and favorites!

* * *

Fiery tears seared her throat. She swallowed, watching Quinn flee yet another battle. Desertion was never something she worried about before, not something she'd ever feared from her spouse. And until recently, she never needed to. But how many times had Quinn run away from a fight and slept in her office instead of their bed? Each night it'd destroyed her. Sometimes it was necessary, she conceded. If Quinn hadn't left the room by her own free will, Rachel may have chased her out, lobbing yet another pillow or newly discarded piece of clothing as she undressed for sleep. Although, whenever she'd thrown the latter their arguments ended in sex. Really passionate angry sex that never fixed anything because they didn't talk about the fight afterward, never revisited the problem and let whatever it was fester until yet another night when Quinn would bite her tongue and walk out of their bedroom. Rachel never went after her.

The sudden chirp of the housecom rang throughout the kitchen. Rachel jumped and her hand flew to her chest. She wasn't sure if the rapid palpitations of her heart were from being caught unawares or the lingering effect of Quinn's kisses and touch. The fight and the display of forgotten passion, enraged as she was, left her shaking. So many emotions rolled through the actress that she couldn't name them all, but a few reverberated louder than others. Anger and lust contended for top billing with regret cemented in a supporting role. She wanted to stay mad. Wanted to slam doors and throw things. Wanted to follow the stomp of Quinn's feet up the stairs and pull the blonde back into her arms. Wanted to unpack the stored away box of things the doctor had forgotten, douse its contents in kerosene and have a bonfire in the middle of the bustling intersection of East 49th Street and Second Avenue. She wanted to scream and shout and tell Quinn to go to Hell then beg her to stay and never leave again. She wanted her wife back, and she knew that wasn't possible. The comlink kept ringing and she sighed, not ready to deal with Santana but knowing her friend would keep calling if she didn't answer.

"Voice," she said, wincing at how her throat scratched. There was no way she could handle Santana in light of what she and Quinn almost did moments ago. Neither could she avoid it. "Tana, this isn't a g—"

"Good morning, Ms. Berry." The voice was entirely too cheerful with just a hint of slime. "I hate to break it to you, but it's not your pitbull calling."

Tension coiled in her gut and her body shifted to high alert. Nothing good could come from this. The line of her shoulders straightened and Rachel wiped her features free of any evidence she was upset. "Switch to video."

The com program obeyed and she was face to face with a rotund man who was eight years her junior and had thinning, drab brown hair. It was her trusted manager and public relations representative. Trusted, but no further than she could throw him, which was certainly not enough for Rachel to share any information regarding her disintegrating marriage even though he'd had the privilege of managing and promoting Rachel Berry for the last five years. That was to say, he hadn't done a whole lot for her lately, and she'd seen no need to divulge her personal crises to a man who secured voiceover roles, or music records that emotionally ravaged her. Realistically, she'd have to tell him soon. Letting the guy get blindsided by leaked news of Rachel Berry filing for divorce was potentially detrimental to her re-burgeoning career. Behind that ingratiating grin was a shrewd and ruthless businessman who did what was best for his clients, yes, so long as it benefitted him, too.

The actress adopted a smile to match that of the media shark on the monitor: sweet, false and ready to bite. "Good morning to you, as well, Mr. Paige. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

Geoffrey Paige snorted and reclined in his desk chair, tossing a rubber ball between his hands like a child. Somebody certainly was chipper to be at the office this early in the day. "I have some bad news." His face turned somber, but the Tony Award winner wasn't fooled. "Due to this nasty storm, the building we booked for your photo shoot today is unavailable. It suffered a fair amount of damage—something about old power lines and not being equipped for WiTricity. Can you believe it? In this day and age? Ridiculous." He waved his hand, looking so shocked that technology could fail.

The hard truth was that nothing was perfect.

Salty foolishness prickled behind her eyes. Right. Because crying about a power outage was far more sensible than crying over her and Quinn's failed relationship. The woman was just upstairs, checking on their son whom Rachel had frightened with her shouting from earlier. How high and mighty of her—she would have yelled at Daniel for inadvertently walking in on them exactly the same if she had the wherewithal to react in time. Rachel suddenly felt like clawing Quinn's eyes out. Then felt guilty. Screw it. She had a job to focus on. _Vanity Fair _was doing an article about her new album and everything had been set for three hours from now, but clearly that wasn't happening today.

"When did you reschedule for?" She'd need to make sure the kids weren't alone. She'd left them for longer than she'd planned last night and she should have known better. The weather forecast was bad, but she honestly thought the boys were getting better about storms and Joshua's message held no hint of fear or danger. Still, her absence was inexcusable. She should have been here, should have told Alan to shove it and driven home the minute Joshua texted her. But she didn't. Because Quinn wasn't the only one who'd put work first in the last two decades.

Geoff was smiling. Rachel didn't have a clue what he was saying, but she nodded along in agreement anyway. He'd send details later so she'd make arrangements then and hopefully Santana would be free to stay with the kids if necessary. She just wanted to be done. Rain clouds blocked any hint of the sun and she was ready to curl under her covers for days. "Sounds fine."

The younger man's blue eyes lit up. She didn't like the look of it. "Really? Oh, they are going to love it!"

"Love what, Geoffrey?"

"Home photos."

_That's _what she just agreed to?

"This is so exciting!" He poked away at the laptop in front of him, his whole body vibrating with enthusiasm. "VF can have their team out to your house in an hour. You don't mind pushing it up, right? Of course not, seeing as how the photo shoot is coming to you. I'm going to call your security provider and have them send over a small detail. A rent-a-cop is better than no cop, am I right?"

His rambling was hypnotic. Rachel lost her objection by means of sheer confusion and the fact that her jaw didn't seem to be able to lift off the floor. A few keystrokes by manicured sausage fingers and her day was set. Everything was spiraling out of her control, if she even had it in the first place.

"Right. Two street-clothed guards will be there to sit on the house and check IDs and passes for VF's personnel and keep the more plebeian press out of your hair and away from your home. Can't be too careful with paparazzi coming out of the shadows now that you're back on the scene." He chuckled to himself.

Rachel saw nothing humorous about this. In fact, it the situation seemed rather grim in her eyes. Instead of her going to a rented venue to participate in a professional, promotional photography session, the photo shoot was coming here. Strangers. In her house. With her family.

"Wait—"

"Mama!"

Ava's happy greeting stole her attention and the movie star spun around to see her daughter leaning dangerously far away from her mommy's arms. She caught the child without conscious thought as Quinn coasted fluidly by, handing her off in a dance they'd done since their first child was born. Just another game of "pass the baby" in the Fabray-Berry household. The little girl began chattering in her ear yet Rachel still heard the opening and closing of the refrigerator and the quiet reminder to say "please" and "thank you" before the babbling ceased and a hungry Ava chugged her morning vitamin shake. It'd be so damned domestic and quaint if she and Quinn could just look at each other.

"Dr. Fabray!"

Geoffrey had such a crush on the taller woman. Rachel hated it. It wasn't because of a physical attraction or even simply misguided admiration, though she really couldn't fault him if either were the case. No, Geoff turned into a giddy moron around Quinn because he was under the impression she could make him more money. Since becoming Rachel's manager, he'd been pushing for the renowned doctor to use her own "distinguished celebrity" to further Rachel's popularity and possibly expand her fan base. Rachel didn't see how it'd work, but the lout thought they could be the ultimate power couple if Quinn attended more opening nights and again allowed herself to be photographed alongside Rachel just like on red carpets gone by, or in the invasive shots of them leaving restaurants or shopping together in years past. When they were much younger, the blonde had been fine with it all. She dealt with her shyness by stepping back among the handlers while Rachel schmoozed with the press, linking their arms only when the hounds found a new celebrity to chase. Most people they knew would be surprised to learn that the former cheer captain and brilliant public speaker was shy, but most people hadn't known Quinn when she'd been Lucy. Not like Rachel had, and she remembered how reticent the girl could be. But _Quinn _adapted. So…hats, aviator sunglasses, scarves, and fake smiles were donned as armor whenever they left the house as the actress grew more recognizable and they accepted the flashing lights and hollered questions as part of Rachel's life, consequently their life. Until the boys were born. That's when the gorgeous blonde fell from Rachel's arm in the public eye and holed herself up at home or in the lab. By the time Daniel was six and Dr. Fabray gained academic acclaim the world over, the two of them hadn't been seen together much in public for years.

It wasn't as though they'd ever hidden their marriage, however. They weren't a famous, attention grabbing couple like Brad and Angelina had been, no. They were more like Diane Sawyer and Mike Nichols—both famous in their fields, but easy to separate because their professions had no crossover—and often garnered a vague "Ohhh yeaaah" response when people remembered they were married to each other. If those people knew who Dr. Quinn Fabray was in the first place. It was public knowledge, plastered on both their Wikipedia pages, but easily slipped the minds of the masses.

"Hi Geoff." Quinn's greeting wasn't rude, but it wasn't very friendly either. Rachel knew it was more to do with their fight than her opinion of the man, which, granted, wasn't very high.

Said man was grinning. "It's so good to see you! How's your sabbatical so far? There was quite the buzz at the office and online when NYU canceled your latest lecture tour—you have to keep me updated on these things, Rachel."

He was scolding _her_? Rachel's eyes were wide with surprise. This was the first she'd heard of Quinn taking time off. Which made sense, considering the only words they'd spoken in the last five months were this morning.

"Otherwise I truly do have "no comment" when rumors about the two of you need to be confirmed or killed." Geoff giggled.

The couple stared past each other, completely ignoring Geoff's "tsking" sounds. Brown eyes looked on in shock, and a dark shade of red climbed from Quinn's chest up to her cheeks. Unlike before, she was the first to recover.

"That's my fault, Geoff. We didn't say anything because we needed time to ourselves." A truth wrapped in a lie. Point: Fabray. "I didn't want you on my ass again with your nonsense, either." Quinn smiled, but the threat to leave her alone or else was implied. Whatever Geoff was planning to sell, she wasn't buying.

He ignored it. "Well, since you're not globe-trotting and saving the world, but clearly at home, I think a few shots of you and Ms. Berry would be wonderful for the direction we're now taking."

The brunette was a statue. She could do nothing but hold Ava and watch and listen to her micro-managing publicist try his hand yet again at persuading Quinn into the non-academic spotlight.

"Flattering, but not happening, Geoffrey, you sweet giraffe."

Rachel snorted into Ava's hair. Being a short, portly man, he'd never understood that reference. He might not even know its origin in the first place. Oh, God. Were they really that old?

"What's a giraffe?" Ava asked and Rachel pursed her lips. The little girl knew her animals, but it was a little early for her young brain to process some things seeing as how late she'd been up last night.

Quinn fielded the question, her tone of voice transforming from snide to sweet and patient. "It's the one that's like a camel with a sooooper long neck but no humps."

The smile she wore while addressing Ava was adorable. She tapped the monitor and banished Geoff to a small box in the lower left corner then proceeded to draw the animal quite quickly. Accurate yet cartoonish, it was…perfect.

Great. Rachel's heart was warming at a picture of the world's tallest mammal. Something was wrong with her.

"Oh. Huh." The tired child looked puzzled but shrugged it off. "I don't 'member that one. Does it live at the zoo?"

"Some do." Quinn's ability to talk to their daughter so easily and frankly was killing her. Doctor or mother, whenever the blonde was around children she was open and honest. She used to be that way with Rachel, too…

"Can we see them?"

Rachel jumped in, needing a distraction from the sudden onslaught of sorrow. "Maybe someday, sweetheart." Meaning never. She abhorred zoos. Animals in captivity did not meet with her PETA-ness and she refused to go.

Pale cheeks hollowed as Quinn sucked them against her teeth, staring at the floor and suppressing a smirk. Both mothers knew full well Rachel would sooner take Ava on safari in Africa than to a zoo. However, both also knew the doctor had gone behind Rachel's back more than once and taken the kids on adventures to Central Park and Brooklyn zoos. They always came home with the tell-tale signs of dye stained mouths from Streisand only knew how many snow-cones and batons of cotton candy. Prompted by the memories, Rachel hid her own smile in Ava's hair. Sneaky damn Fabray. Still, she was never actually mad about their excursions. In a way it was pretty sweet and a way of spending time with them while Quinn was home and Rachel was working. Best of all, no one ever recognized or bothered them.

"Kay." Ava went back to snuggling into Rachel's chest, cradling her chocolate shake between them. The adults returned their focus to a now full-screened Geoff and his suspicious ogling.

"And… just how are the trenches of married life these days?" He was perceptive. She'd give him that much. Quinn wasn't playing his game, though.

"All quiet on the Western front, Geoffy." Quinn was at the coffee pot, reusing her Dr. Seuss's Horton the Elephant mug. The brunette wondered how far back in the cabinet she'd had to search for that this morning because Rachel hadn't so much as glimpsed it in months and assumed Quinn had taken it with her. Otherwise she would've packed it up in the basement with the few other forgotten possessions.

"I see." Geoff blew out a heavy breath and propped his face in both hands. He looked like a petulant child. "In all seriousness, is there any way I can't get you to pose for pictures with your wife today? It'd do wonders to boost her comeback."

For the first time since returning with their daughter, Quinn looked at Rachel albeit peripherally. Although she didn't want to, the diva had to admit a photo op with the two of them would pique more interest in her than any new album might. She bit her lip in suspense of the taller woman's reaction and rested her cheek atop Ava's unmoving head; her replica had fallen back to sleep.

Sharp hazel eyes moved back to Geoff's pouty face on the comscreen. "It'll help Rachel? Like, really help?"

The singer's breath caught and her gaze locked with Quinn's. The privacy-demanding doctor was actually considering it? Geoff was quick to answer.

"Without question. You could even throw in the kids. It'd be gossip gold. But, you know, in a tasteful, homey way."

"I can be in pictures?" Apparently Ava was not, in fact, asleep.

The mothers watched the pros and cons weigh in each other's eyes. Somehow the ability to speak without words in regard to their children was returning. It was ironic that when it came to their kids, the Fabray-Berry women didn't need words to communicate even if they didn't agree. If only so much could be said for themselves. Yes, having a huge family photo spread would push curiosity in Rachel over the top, but she wasn't too keen on exploiting their children for her popularity's sake. It didn't look like Quinn was, either.

"How about this," Geoff interrupted their silent conversation. "I'll draw up a new contract giving the folks at _Vanity Fair _fair use of any pictures of the two of you while you retain exclusive legal rights to photos of the kiddos and can publish them—or not—if you choose. It will include the right to revoke consent and privilege if you later change your mind about releasing them for public consumption."

"They'll agree to that?" Rachel asked, holding Quinn's stare.

"They'll jump at the chance. I bet my career they'd sign anything just to get a shot of the back of their heads." He'd be making good on that wager if this backfired. Rachel would find a way to ruin him. Quinn would just kill him.

The two used the pause to continue their silent debate. The blonde opened her mouth, talking directly to Rachel for the first time since their fight. "If it'll help, and if you think it's okay… I'm all right with it."

Rachel swallowed and shifted Ava higher on her torso, propping the child with her right arm while rubbing her left hand up and down her back and swaying side to side, just to have something to do. They could change their minds. They could keep the media cards and digital images. They could renege if they felt uncomfortable in any way. And if that happened, Geoff would still have pictures of her and Quinn to sell to the magazine, just like he wanted. All fretting and the certain advantages to her aside, she wished she knew why Quinn was agreeing to this.

A memory of high school flashed through her mind and she closed her eyes, remembering blushing pink cheeks downcast eyes as a teenaged Quinn confessed—under threats of no sex for a month—how exactly the fledgling glee club got a whole page in the McKinley yearbook their sophomore year. Rachel hadn't known about the confrontation with the Cheerio coach until well after the girls began dating. And when she'd asked what prompted Quinn, who she thought hated her at the time, to do that for the group, the response astonished her: _"I didn't do it for the club, Rach. I just knew how much __you__ wanted it."_

(Quinn had gotten laid anytime, anywhere for the next three weeks. Without question or objection. That's how grateful Rachel had been.)

The stirring against her breast felt more like her stilted heart than Ava's restless teetering in and out of sleep. Here they were again, Rachel wanted something and Quinn was willing to take on the Sue Sylvester of the PR world to get it for her.

She kissed the top of her daughter's head, too overwhelmed to hold that light green gaze staring at her in such raw tenderness. "Only if they want to," she said. There was no way Rachel was forcing her children into this. And if one of them said no, none of them would be photographed at all.

Quinn's voice was soft, supportive. "Only if they want to." The distance between them didn't seem as great, suddenly. Even if they were on opposite sides of the kitchen, they were finally on the same side of an issue.

Geoff clapped his hands, startling both of them. He beamed at them as if they could shoot sunshine out of their butts like a party trick. Terrific.

"Well then! I've got calls to make and a contract to write. I'll even send a copy to your Rottweiler to double check it if you like."

Quinn grunted, and Rachel nodded absently. Everything kept coming back to Santana and she didn't like it. Though she really, really didn't want to, she believed Quinn's claim of the Machiavellian Ms. Lopez keeping them apart. Partly because they'd been together for so long that it was impossible not to spot the bona fide confusion when the topic of Santana as mediator arose, and how angry hazel eyes narrowed at the idea that the lawyer might be playing the part of the rabble-rouser more than that of a soothsayer. But it was mainly because she actually did still trust Quinn not to lie to her.

Rachel sure had a funny way of showing it, though.

Her insecurities about her worth as a wife first surfaced when it seemed the doctor was more invested in her medicine than in Rachel. At her core, she knew Quinn was loyal to her, upholding their vows of commitment made years before they actually wed. But it was little consolation on cold nights when her vivid imagination tortured her with agonizing images of the blonde in bed with another woman. It made her lash out, hurling unfounded accusations of infidelity during the times she should have been happy to have Quinn home in her arms, and she'd done it again this morning, repeating her mistakes.

Geoff had signed off sometime during her internal admonition.

Ava had fallen back to sleep on her shoulder.

Quinn was staring at her, curious but wary.

"I'm sorry."

The taller woman started a little, obviously not expecting that. "What?"

"I'm sorry," Rachel said again. "I shouldn't have said those things earlier."

A sad, polite smile thinned out the lips that'd bruised hers less than thirty minutes ago. "You needed to say it. I get that, I guess."

"I know," Rachel swallowed, thickly. "I know you nev—"

"Never." Quinn spoke with conviction and the diva felt more ashamed for letting her anxieties get the best of her. The doctor's voice softened. "And I'm not holding it against you. I just don't understand how after all this time, you still think so little of me. Still doubt me so much."

Even if Rachel had an explanation, this wasn't the time or place to discuss it. Not with Ava in the room, unconscious or otherwise. Quinn knew it, too.

"How's Daniel?"

Quinn sighed, placing her empty mug on the counter. "I don't know. I didn't make it that far." She gestured to Ava, "This one was up and looking for you, so..."

A silence so awkward it was painful reigned over them.

"You were right." It was soft, but she heard it.

"About?"

The blonde huffed out a bitter laugh. "Lots of things. But I meant about Danny. You weren't wrong in how you reacted when we were…" She blushed. It was sort of endearing. "Anyway, it was stupid of me to get mad when I would have done the same thing. Like you said."

The brunette had no response. She wasn't used to this open and compromising version of Quinn anymore. Things just got uncomfortable and she felt the need to run. Rachel glanced at the LCD clock on the coffee pot screen.

"Listen, I'm going to start breakfast. Can you take her back to bed and wake up Thing One and tell him what's going on today?"

Quinn stepped only close enough to take the limp bodied little girl, leaving Rachel grasping the half-finished chocolate vitamin shake.

"And could you ask Daniel to come down here? Please. So I can grovel, I guess."

Rebellious blonde locks obscured Quinn's face as she nodded. Rachel spotted a smile. An honest to God smile. The kind that made her wife look almost goofy. Rachel couldn't help but return it. Perhaps today wouldn't be as bad as she'd thought.

Carrying their daughter as though she weighed less than a feather, Quinn left the kitchen much more calmly than she had earlier. Rachel's eyes followed in appreciation of more than one kind. The smile on her face faded from friendly to a subdued bite of her lip as she watched the flex of defined biceps, the tightening of a firm backside, and swaying hips as the doctor walked away. Heat rose to her cheeks and the ache between her legs—the ache Quinn created—reestablished itself.

The com wailed in her ears and she flinched, spilling the breakfast drink down the front of her shirt. Oh, for the love of Liza!" Rachel whirled around and answered the incoming call while reaching for a dish towel. "What Geoff?"

"Just letting you know you have an hour before hair and make-up arrive."

She hissed through her teeth, trying to remain civil to the man who'd scared the hell out of her. "Yes. Thank you. Goodbye, Geoffrey."

"And Rachel," he interrupted before she could end the comlink.

"_WHAT, _Geoff?"

Severe blue eyes narrowed in on hers and she shivered under the scrutiny, experiencing the same terrifying mortification she'd felt her senior year upon getting suspended from school. She gulped, drinking in the realization that he _knew _something wasn't right. And that it was something that could ground her comeback before it had a chance to take off. Geoff's voice undercut her fear and his face was vaguely belittling.

"You might want to put your wedding ring back on."

She didn't even attempt to come up with an excuse. Or to speak at all. Her head nodded once.

"Excellent." Geoffrey flattened both hands on his desk, shoulders tense and smile tight. "Enjoy your day, Mrs. Fabray-Berry."

The screen went blank and Rachel was left in quiet.


	14. Danny Boy

**Disclaimers:** Glee is not mine.  
**Spoilers:** All of season two. AU.  
**Summary:** Fluffy flashback!

Thank you all so much for favoriting/reviewing! My appreciation for it knows no bounds. :D

* * *

Quinn laid on her stomach on the thick blue carpeting, typing away on her laptop while she translated the latest data from Jonah into a bare bones article they'd planned to submit to the Journal of American Medicine. Their research was coming along nicely with continued progress, if it was a bit slow going at times. It was harder for her lately. Having been out of the lab for a few months then diving back in six weeks ago was unplanned and she was still adjusting. She'd like to say her brief vacation was restful, but no. The first month was an unseasonably humid September. It was uncomfortable, spent mostly in bed, and left her feeling more stuffed than a Thanksgiving turkey. The rest of it was sleep deprived, loud, and stressful. Despite these few downsides (plus Josh's occasional bouts of jealousy and increased possessiveness of his mama), the Fabray-Berry household had taken up permanent residence on cloud nine.

A shrill but not entirely unhappy squeal to her left brought a small smile to her face and she turned, looking at the source. She saved her work and powered down the computer then twisted, resting on her side and propping her head in her right hand. The other reached to splay over the belly of the miniature person next to her. She covered it; the width of her palm and the length of her fingers surpassed the rounded stomach and chest as she rubbed in circles. "Hi baby."

Dark, clear eyes stared up a the brightly colored shapes dangling from the crossbar mobile above the fabric floor mat the child was lying upon. He wasn't the biggest fan of tummy time, but he loved lying on his back and watching the plushy, imaginative Dr. Seuss creatures hanging down before him. At nearly five months old, Daniel was a pretty tranquil baby. No, cuddling never lasted long, and he'd rather sit facing away from whomever was holding him, if he was in the mood to be held at all. But he loved to laugh and peek-a-boo was the greatest thing in the world to him. He didn't babble like his brother had, but if there was one thing she'd learned in her time as a pediatrician it was that each baby was different from the rest, siblings included. But he loved his mama's voice. He may not have initially responded with turns of his head or fidgeting his body to get closer, but he calmed and would settle to the sound of it if an irritable temperament presented. Even if unhappy tears were rolling down the round hills of his cheeks, all Rachel had to do was sing and he was as golden as the flecks in his eyes.

They were a rich brown to match the mess of hair so dark it was nearly black. It curled everywhere. There were frizzy kinks at the back of his neck, and whirly ringlets encompassed the rest of his head, some already long enough to dance over his forehead. He was so soft, too. The bumps of baby acne he'd had as a newborn were gone and the smooth skin was now only decorated by a single, miniscule mole on his right cheek. It mirrored his mama's perfectly, as did his tan complexion and lengthy ebony lashes.

Quinn smiled at his sporadic gurgles. Although she and her wife had no plans to ever find out for sure, she knew their son wasn't genetically hers. Put him next to Joshy and it was obvious they were brothers, being from the same donor and all, but nothing about him was Fabray-ic.

She'd felt it from the beginning of the pregnancy. While the self-proclaimed psychic diva was guaranteeing another boy, Quinn had been convinced from the get-go that, son or daughter, this baby was her wife's. Carrying him had been so different than carrying Josh. She loved them the exact same — which was infinite — but there was an added thrill knowing she had _Rachel's_child growing inside her because she was keeping her promise: she was having Rachel's baby.

A spit bubble popped and a gummy grin appeared beneath her. Danny looked up at her and kicked his feet in the air. Quinn was absolutely charmed. "Hey sweet boy."

He actually tilted his head at the sound while he angled his body to raise his legs in the air. His hearing was fine, he was just developing a very determined personality that seemed to be a little single-minded so far and didn't consistently react to speaking voices. Sing to him though, and he was all ears. Infant hands grabbed infant feet and Daniel curled like a potato bug as he rocked side to side, very much a happy baby.

"You know they named a yoga position after that?"

Daniel tried to eat his foot.

"Yes, you're ahead of the curve. Doing yoga before you can even sit up properly. Very modern. Maybe I'll stop pumping so we can switch your bottles to Starbucks or those gross kelp smoothies your mama drinks for when I'm at work. What do you think of that, _boychick_?" She tickled his belly and her soul carried away on his laugh. Nothing in the world made her feel as light and whole as hearing her children laugh. Except for Rachel. Her wife's laugh, so big and carefree, was definitely up there, too.

Daniel rolled back and forth, his direction switching to the side of whichever foot he was trying to shove in his mouth. Quinn frowned; his nose was running again.

As a doctor, she was used to bodily fluids from children. As a mother, she honestly didn't notice it much. She wiped away the viscous discharge with the cuff of her sleeve and pondered it a little. It wasn't a cold. He was too mild-mannered right now for it to be that, and so he certainly wasn't cranky enough to have an ear infection. She'd checked him again for one this morning anyway. He'd been more interested in her stethoscope, however, while Dr. Fabray examined her son. Playing with him, she'd swung it above him like a pendulum, using it to test his tracking just for the hell of it. If she had to, she'd say he already had the 20/20 vision most other children achieved at six months of age. Chances were he'd retain it well into adulthood just like Rachel. His brother, however… Quinn shook her head. They'd be lucky if Josh wasn't walking into walls by the age of twelve. Poor kid. Early adolescence would not be kind to him. However, she had faith Daniel would come out relatively unscathed. His mama was gorgeous, and he was already following in her footsteps.

The nonsensical sounds continued in their angelic, garbled strands. "Aww, you singing, baby?"

Kinda like whalesong, babysong was a language all its own.

"I like your song, Daniel." Quinn's lips twitched into a grin. "You have lots of songs, do you know that?"

More spit bubbles frothed like ocean foam.

"It's true. There's one very special one, too. In fact, it's how you got your name because your mama's crazy like that."

Danny furrowed his forehead and Quinn smoothed her fingertips over the wrinkles before tracing along his cheeks. The infant released his feet and captured her finger, staring at it with curious eyes. Then he took it into his mouth and gnawed away like a puppy with a chew toy.

"Are you hungry or just playing?" She glanced at her watch on the same hand. Feeding time was close enough, she supposed. The mother tugged her finger away and her son's cry pierced her ears. Definitely hungry. "Got it, thanks."

Feeding him as they were, lying down like this, occurred to her but she ultimately decided against it. He was too wiggly today and she really didn't feel like cleaning breast milk out of the carpet if he pulled away too quickly mid-snack. No, she'd rather wash her shirt or maybe even a burpcloth when that happened. If only one day he'd actually get the burpcloth instead of her.

"How come you never spit up on Mama, huh? It's always me." Quinn stood up and stretched. She grabbed the Boppy — an invention more genius and crucial to humanity than everything other than penicillin — off the floor. In her world, the only people who deserved more thanks than the fine manufacturers at the Boppy company were Louis Pasteur, Thomas Edison and Steve Jobs. She tossed the crescent shaped pillow to the couch and unbuttoned her shirt while the baby voiced his displeasure at being kept waiting. "I hear you, I hear you."

Her breasts felt fuller than they had three minutes ago. The wonders of the human body and its primal responses to certain stimuli. She swooped him up like a hawk catching a mouse, but lovingly so, not in a "hey I'mma gon eatchu" kind of way seeing as how the circumstance was rather the opposite.

"And here I was all excited to come home and see you stripping."

Quinn looked away from her son to see Rachel shedding her coat and walking into the living room. The doctor cocked an eyebrow then rolled her eyes, mentally rejoicing that her wife still found her attractive even though not all the pregnancy weight was gone yet. Insecurity about her body still endured from a childhood primarily spent overweight, so knowing Rachel wanted her, thin or bloated like an inflatable pool toy (that _couldn't _float), was ego-boosting and encouraging. However, she was still getting rid of the baby weight as soon as possible. An existence as miserable little Lucy Caboosey was not something Quinn ever wanted to be subjected to or consider ever again. Moving to sit with her back propped against the arm of the couch and drawing up her knees, she maneuvered Boppy and baby until they rested comfortably, tucking in for feeding time. The fact that it hid her bit of a paunch was more than a bonus. "Sorry to disappoint, Rach."

The actress laid her coat on the far end of the sofa then tilted back her wife's face back and dropped a kiss on Quinn's mouth. "You never disappoint. Besides, if it's in the name of feeding our son then I guess I can let it go." She teased the point of her tongue across the blonde's lips then smiled. "For now."

The two shared another kiss hello, slow and sensual. Quinn shivered and opened for just a little bit more of her wife's taste. Then Daniel bit down.

She cursed into Rachel's mouth and pulled back. "Really, Danny? Really?" He didn't even have teeth but it was like a damn piranha was at her nipple.

"And how is our little vampire today?" The diva took care to keep her voice soft.

"Bitey. How was the read-through?"

"Bitchy. When is Joshua coming home?"

Quinn's face was both serious and excited. "San called and said since he was "so chill and not crampin' mah style too much," she wouldn't mind if he stayed for a while. I heard the Imperial March playing in the background so I'm pretty sure it's going to be a _t__ía__ y sobrino _bonding marathon for the rest of the weekend."

Rachel's jaw plummeted, her eyes wide. "She's keeping him the whole weekend?"

The blonde nodded. "So she said."

"Santana Lopez is a saint."

"Aaaaaand I'm pretty sure you just triggered the Apocalypse," the doctor said, only half kidding.

Rachel stuck her tongue out then asked, "What do you want for dinner?"

Hazel eyes turned playful and Quinn mmhmmmed. "Can you come around from behind the couch?"

"Okay... Why?"

"So I can see what I want for dinner."

The diva huffed and leveled Quinn with a good-humored glare. "You eat real food and keep that boy healthy…" She came around to stand behind the woman sitting on the couch, staying out of sight before leaning down and nibbling a sensitive, fair-skinned ear lobe. "And I'll give you whatever you want."

The blonde groaned and her head fell back. Rachel planted a few quick kisses to her neck then rested her chin on Quinn's exposed shoulder as they both watched their son eat _his _dinner.

"He's perfect."

"He is."

"He's ours."

"Yeah. He really is."

They were quiet for a while, content to gaze on in awe at the little boy suckling away. When it came time to switch breasts, Rachel climbed over the arm of the couch and trapped herself between it and Quinn's body.

"Lean back, baby."

Quinn complied, sinking into the warmth. The heat and pressure from the shorter woman made feeding comfortable instead of merely tolerable. They locked together, watching yet to close brown eyes haze over and become heavy. The nursing mother turned her head to nuzzle into her wife's neck, and Rachel slid an arm around to help cradle Daniel's head in one hand while the other threaded through the blonde's long hair.

"People smile and tell me I'm the lucky one…"

Quinn relaxed a little more, readily submerging herself in the peace of the moment as Rachel continued singing. Daniel was fighting sleep, but his mama was clearly making it difficult to stay awake. She, too, was falling victim to the lulling melody. So she closed her eyes and let the sweet voice take her away.

"And in the morning when I rise, you bring a tear of joy to my eyes and tell me ev'ry thing… is gonna be all right." Tender lips pressed to Quinn's temple and warm breath ghosted over her ear. "Yeah, it's gonna be all right."

The tired woman sighed, feeling the blessed, breathy snore against her breast. Their little boy was out. Her movements were slow as she shifted him to rest on her shoulder. His head nestled with hers and Rachel's, and she gently rubbed her hand over his back. "See Danny?" she whispered, tucking further into her wife and experiencing serenity in its purest form. "I told you you had a song."


	15. Shape Of Things To Come

******Rating**: PG-13**  
Disclaimer**: Glee is not mine, but this series is.  
**Spoilers**: Mostly everything, but AU from end of Season Two.

* * *

The banging of pots and pans was oddly gratifying to Rachel as she rummaged in the kitchen cupboards. The skillet was missing, thwarting all plans for pancakes. Maybe that was a good thing. Pancakes were comfort food and she'd made them more often in the last few months than she remembered making in the previous year. Today was not for comfort, however. Today was about confrontation and having the courage to meet it. Today she'd be cordially combating mongrels of the media as they invaded her home and her family's privacy. It wasn't that she was overly concerned about what she'd agreed to, it was just that this was a circumstance she never thought she'd be in. Family photos while their very foundations crumbled beneath their feet? Conceited about her talent, and rightly so, the diva had to admit she wasn't sure she was a good enough actress to play the role of happy wife and mother. Conflicting emotions flooded every part of her, drowning out her rational mind: anxiety, excitement, desire, anger, and the need for general catharsis. It was barely after seven in the morning and she was ready to cry. But she couldn't. She had to hold it together and ignore the reality that her almost ex-wife was here and wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. Whether that was a good or bad thing was still debatable. But she'd deal with it; she had to. She was Rachel Barbra Ber—no. Not today. Today she was Rachel Barbra Fabray-Berry no matter if she wanted to be or not. Well, the world was about to learn that Rachel Barbra Fabray-Berry was a hell of a lot stronger than most people gave her credit for.

"Mama?"

The low baritone behind her was more fitting to a man than a thirteen-year-old boy. She pivoted on her toes, still crouched on the kitchen floor. From this angle Daniel looked even bigger than he was. Which was huge. It was disconcerting to say the least, and she believed the fertility clinic's questionnaire for donors was insufficient in its informational requirements. It would have been nice to know that the brown eyed, brown haired, six-feet-tall sperm donor with the glowing bill of health and outstanding family medical history just _happened _to be a descendent of Goliath. Unless Daniel's enormousness came from some strange genetic phenomenon on her side which…no, Goliath DNA was far more plausible.

She was afraid for him, worried he might be teased for (at the very least) his height just like she'd been teased for her lack thereof. The majority of names she'd been called as a teen were cruel jibes at her nose or short stature. She'd learned to love her nose. It made her unique. But, oh, how she'd wished for years for another growth spurt to strike. Then "dwarf" or "midget" would no longer apply and she'd have felt comfortable with her body much earlier in her life. However, that didn't happen until later: only when she realized how perfectly she fit with Quinn did Rachel accept her petite size. Because then she'd understood she was built to be in Quinn's arms.

Maybe that was why her body was breaking as easily as her heart.

Daniel stared at her, wide eyed and uncertain. He looked like a trapped wild animal, not necessarily understanding why he was asked to be here but knowing he didn't like it and wanted to escape. The hurried tapping of nails that most likely needed trimming redirected her thoughts. It was a nervous habit that bugged her more often than not. She sighed and stood up. He immediately stepped back. They were long past the days when she'd have to coax a young Daniel away from Quinn, but the fact that she was used to this didn't numb her to the pain of her son rejecting her.

Rachel wasn't ready for it when Quinn caught it. Because it wasn't something any parent could be ready for. There were a few small signs, enough that the doctor convinced her that they needed to get him evaluated. She regretted not listening to her wife sooner. Maybe if he'd been diagnosed earlier, Daniel would be a little less…different. The doctors said there were cases of kids with Asperger's who almost "out grew" it, simply meaning that they learned how to adjust and thrive on their own better than some others with Asperger's but it was always there. It wasn't something that could be "out grown." It was who her son was. Part of him, she meant.

She and Quinn didn't want to get on the wait-and-see bandwagon though. Nor was either of them in favor of trying the drug treatments that'd been newly available at the time. Once he was diagnosed, they enrolled in parental workshops where they would learn how to best accommodate whatever needs Daniel might have while he had monthly appointments with the best clinicians in the state who helped him with behavioral issues, personal interactions and anticipate and correct any problems with communication that might arise.

So that's what they did. Quinn never left once during those initial two years of their son's diagnosis. Rachel couldn't say the same.

"Hi honey. Sorry. Mama spaced out for a sec."

His broad shoulders shrugged up to his ears. He'd learned what that meant and to repeat it a while ago, but Rachel wondered if it felt as clumsy and unnatural as it looked. "You do that a lot."

"Yeah...I've just been really distracted lately," she mumbled.

Daniel looked frightened in the sense that he wasn't sure what he was "supposed" to say, but wanted to say something. Just to please her. She abhorred that look. And it ruined her any time she was the cause of it—that _she _made him feel uncomfortable.

She smiled listlessly and clucked her tongue. Appraising her son, an idea came to mind. It was an inadequate for an apology, but she hoped it'd make him even a little bit happy. "How do you feel about scrambled eggs for breakfast?"

"Can there be bacon?"

Rachel chuckled quietly, knowing that in spite of his lack of intonation, Daniel was indeed interested in the bacon. Her own vegan lifestyle ended as soon the FDA approved _in vitro _meat. She still didn't eat dairy products, but she felt less guilty about feeding her family eggs as long as they were from free range chickens. Foregoing the skillet to the black hole of the cupboard, she retrieved a frying pan instead. She wanted to see her son's smile, and not the one he used in public because he'd deduced that that's what people do, but the one that took over his whole face because the joy inside him was too big to contain.

So yes…"There's always bacon with eggs, sweetie." Seconds later the burner was lit and the pan heating. "Do you—Would you like to help?" She tried for an ice breaker, unsure how to begin.

"No." It wasn't malicious or angry in any way. Like most times, his voice was rather flat.

"All right. Can you at least get the food out of the fridge for me?"

Daniel complied robotically, a sign he was nervous and frustrated by being so, which made him more tense. Rachel needed fortification if she was going to get through this. Talking to him could be so hard. She didn't always know how to relate to him and it was her own fault. Joshua and Ava were so emotionally accessible, but Daniel hardly showed how he felt about most things. The guilt-ridden mother knew it was because he didn't understand and couldn't really interpret the facial expressions of others. Instead, he'd learned to copy them. It wasn't until he was ten that he could make eye contact with people outside of their immediate family or his _t__ía_. She never knew how to deal with it, not like Quinn did when she took the time to teach and encourage Daniel to (among other things) meet the gazes of others. Even still, that practice wasn't a consistent one and had deteriorated since Quinn moved out. Their son was unintentionally closed off to begin with, and this divorce was making it worse. More terrible, she had yet to talk in depth with him about it.

Delaying, Rachel moved to the coffee pot and poured her third cup of the day. She didn't know if her jittery hands were due to the caffeine or trepidation of speaking to him. Joshua was so much better at this kind of thing. He'd been the one handling whatever questions Daniel may have had—questions Joshua didn't have answers to. Questions _she _didn't have answers to. She couldn't even call it a divorce because she wasn't sure if Daniel would truly comprehend that. So, like she'd done with Ava, she renamed it. Mama and Mommy were simply "living in separate houses" now.

The actress dawdled with her drink, unable to face him. The shame she felt was tremendous and even she couldn't conceal it. Although, she didn't really need to: Daniel wouldn't recognize the disgrace crossing her features for what it was, anyway. A fresh wave of guilt crashed over her. .ever.

"Michelangelo didn't invent the dome. Did you know that?"

Her eyes closed and she let out a slow breath. Conversing with Daniel meant listening to him talk about whatever it was that fascinated him at the moment, regardless of one's own interest in the topic. And architecture was his favorite thing in the world aside from barbeque flavored potato chips. Rachel decided to capitalize on the distraction. He was talking to her, and that was the important thing.

"Do you mean rediscover?" she asked over her shoulder. If memory served, the dome was "invented" during antiquity by the Greeks or Romans or whoever, then lost to the Dark Ages. Or at least, that's what the textbook of her Western Civilization course had said during her first year of college. No, Rachel didn't have complete and total recall, but she remembered close to everything she read. It was quite advantageous in her career because directors were relatively okay hiring prima donnas so long as they knew their lines. Work was the last thing she wanted to think about right now.

"Yeah. That," Daniel said, breaking her train of thought. "But he didn't do it even though everyone thinks he did."

She couldn't begin to fathom who "everyone" might be. Coffee poured and flavored to perfection, Rachel finally turned around. "Why's that?"

"Because he built the dome of Saint Peter's Basilica." Daniel stared at her seriously. "You know, the one in Rome?"

Faintly amused, the mother smiled. "Yes, I know."

"What's the difference between a basilica and a regular church?"

Rachel's dark eyebrows climbed to her hairline. The woman was truly perplexed. She'd been raised by a decently observant Jew and a cafeteria Catholic. That mixture boiled down to having Hanukkah, Christmas, Passover (then Easter of all things), with a few High Holy Days scattered in between. She wasn't aware there was a hierarchy to houses of worship within the Catholic Church, but she couldn't say she was surprised by it.

"That's one for your mother. You'll have to ask her."

"Oh. Okay." He walked out of the kitchen. Uncooked food in hand.

"Daniel, wait." She put her mug down and jogged to catch him before his long legs carried him too far out of the room. Wordlessly, she took the carton of eggs then tucked the package of bacon under her arm. When he tried to leave again, to seek an answer to his question at that very moment, she reached for his hand. Her hesitation was unwelcome but there just the same. She simply wasn't ready for him to go yet. "Can you tell me the rest of your story? Keep me company?"

Stiff movements led him to the breakfast nook in the corner, but he didn't sit. The tall table and chairs barely reached his waist so he sort of leaned against them, tapping his fingers and occasionally scratching his ear.

She gave him a heartfelt smile and got to cooking. And talking. "So, if Michelangelo didn't rediscover the dome, who did?"

"What? Oh," Daniel needed a moment to remember the topic. "A guy named Brunelleschi."

Rachel glanced back at him so he'd see she was actively listening, because that's what people did when having a conversation. But Daniel could go on and on about something while she read a new script or was folding laundry, never noticing if she was paying attention or not. Still, she found herself rather curious.

"Why didn't he get credit for it then?" If it was that big of a deal, he probably _did_.

Daniel shrugged, his face mimicking Quinn's silly "don't ask me" expression while his hands raised in the air before they slapped down to tree trunk thighs. "I dunno."

She shook her head, her smile becoming a grin at the childish gesture. He was enormous but he was still her baby boy.

"But he did it before Michelangelo was even born."

"Wow." The mother finished laying the bacon strips in the pan then reached for a mixing bowl and the egg carton. "What did Bruneschelli— "

"Brunelleschi."

"Right. What did he do? Dome wise?" It was crucial to add that last bit because Rachel had a feeling any man smart enough to be a Renaissance architect probably had a number of other, non-dome accomplishments. And keeping Daniel focused was the name of the game in all situations.

"He built the top of Santa Maria del Fiore. It's a dome," he clarified for her with that monotone voice, sounding like a burned out teacher begging for retirement. "It's called The Duomo."

And this was clearly turning in to a school lesson. Had anyone else been telling her this Rachel would know her intelligence wasn't being insulted but that she was being teased. But Daniel's sense of humor didn't usually include poking fun at someone or sarcasm. Not that she thought the boy was insulting her or assumed she was stupid, he was just plainly apprising her of a fact.

"How did he do that?" She looked over just in time to see Daniel's eyes spark with delight.

"He was special."

The mother's heart clenched at the involuntary, innocent smile on her son's face. He was beautiful. And so much his own, special, not-so-little self. "Tell me how?"

Large hands waved in unrestrained exhilaration. "Okay, so the guys, the ones in charge of the city, held a contest to see who got to put the dome on the church because that was the part that was still missing from the original plans and he got it because he was smarter than all of them."

Pausing from cracking eggs into the bowl, she lowered the flame beneath the frying pan and turned to him, fully paying attention. It was more due to how animated he'd become than the topic, though. And she didn't feel guilty about that. Like any mother, she loved it when her children were happy, but Daniel hadn't been happy lately. Not that one could really tell based merely on appearance. He'd been moody and seemed to be bouncing through a number of emotions, which upset him because he couldn't always put a name to those feelings, he just knew he didn't feel _good_. If discussing things like this would make and keep him this happy, Rachel was downloading all the books and information on dead Italian architects her Kindle could hold, solely so she could talk with her son and see him like this all the time.

"How'd he win the contest, honey?" She was genuinely engrossed in his tale.

The boy was beaming, his teeth gleaming white. He hurried over to her and grabbed an egg from the carton. He then proceeded to crack it open — not over the bowl, but on the edge of the countertop. Yolk and egg white went all over the surface and began dripping down to the floor.

Rachel was flabbergasted. "Daniel— "

"He broke an egg."

Well, clearly.

He went on to explain, caught up in the tale instead of his mother's astonishment. "The city guys made all the, umm, competitors balance an egg upright but no one could."

She maintained the conversation simply as a reflex. "Except Brunesch— "

"Brunelleschi," he corrected her.

"Right. Him." She was too preoccupied with the stickiness and possible Salmonella slathered on her granite counter and the dollops falling to the ground. The dish towel she'd used to wipe Ava's vitamin shake off her shirt was in hand and ready to clean it up, but Daniel's shout stopped her.

"No, look!" He gestured to the remnants of the eggshell. "That's how he did it. They couldn't make their eggs stand up and be domes because they were whole, but he broke his like this." Big hands picked up the empty halves and turned them upside down, until the rounded ends pointed skyward. Making not one, but two domes.

"He had to break it to make it stronger."

Rachel's world stopped and all the air in the distance between them disappeared.

Oh God. Dry lips parted and she sucked in a tremulous breath. Her stare switched back and forth between her son's happy, proud smile and the pair of eggshell domes, but all she could really see was Quinn. How everything they were fell apart. How their marriage fractured. How they'd broken each other just as easily as Daniel had broken that egg. Broken it…to make it stronger.

Dumbfounded, Rachel was fixed where she stood. Miracles were real, she believed that. But epiphanies…? A bolt of insight all but bored its way into her brain. This was it. Her Aha moment. She was suspended from the world, wanting to shout "Eureka!" like a fool who'd stumbled upon a kind of clarity she didn't earn.

She sniffled, willing back the sudden moisture gathering in her eyes.

He may have Asperger's Syndrome; he may have sensory integration issues that make some sounds unbearable, like the clamor of crowds or thunder, or not realize the volume of his own voice when he was agitated or excited; he may have been well on his way to becoming a short-tempered, angst-battered teenager who might not understand why he got angry or knew what to do about it; but Daniel Leroy Fabray-Berry was a Goddamned genius.

Rachel swallowed gruffly, knowing it was pointless to try speaking without doing so. Yet her voice was little more than a tearful rasp. "_Boychickel_? Can I have a hug?"

The brightness in those deep brown eyes he'd gotten from her doubled. The massive teen bent low and rested his cheek on her shoulder. His arms encircled her middle while she stretched to wrap hers around his sizable body. She kissed his hair and rubbed as much of his back as she could reach.

It didn't last long, partly to do with the awkward angle of their vast height difference and partly to do with his dislike for too much physical contact. They let go. But not before Rachel planted a kiss on her son's scruffy cheek.

Daniel rolled his eyes and wiped his face. "Eww."

_Now_he was teasing her, so she stood on her tiptoes while pulling him closer just so she could do it again. She was his Mama. It was some sort of rule that she was supposed to embarrass him. "Oh, you so need to shave today."

Not only was the thirteen-year-old tall like the biblical Philistine warrior little David took out with a sling-shot, but he was as hairy as a bear, too. It was insane, but Daniel was a 6'4" seventh-grader who got a five o'clock shadow by three in the afternoon. He was pouting, too. It wasn't as good as hers or Ava's, but close enough.

She poked his belly and reveled in his surprised, doughboy giggle. "Thank you. For the hug and the story."

It was the perfect allegorical anecdote he didn't know she needed.

"And I'm sorry I yelled at you earlier," she said. "You surprised me and I got scared. But I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

Daniel shrugged, passive and unaffected. "It's okay. No one wants to see you guys kiss anyway."

She laughed. Loud and brash, it erupted and flooded the kitchen. Daniel jumped back in surprised so she quickly reined it in as best she could. Rachel couldn't help but hug him again, this time her cheek pressing against his wide chest. A single arm lightly came around her, but his shoulders were rigid.

Daniel was evidently done with the hugging. He pulled away. "There's egg on the floor. And the counter."

Indeed there was. And no, he didn't sound the least apologetic, but purely informative.

Rachel gave him the towel. "And you did it." Her voice was cheery and she returned to the stove, hoping the bacon wasn't burnt. Her son followed, throwing away the brown shells and cleaning up his mess without needing to be explicitly told.

There was a certain elation in knowing how far they'd come in only minutes. And even though she knew she had _lightyears _to go, Rachel was happy as long as Daniel was happy. Proud of their progress, she couldn't stop her grinning or glancing at the focus in his eyes and the easy, authentic smile on his face.

He was her boy, her sweet and unwittingly wise boy who she wouldn't change for the world: Daniel was perfect exactly the way he was.


	16. Momma Look Sharp

******Spoilers**: Everything. Future fic.**  
****Disclaimers**: Don't own Glee.**  
A/N**: I swear, it's _not_ what you think. Unbeta'd.

* * *

With Ava tucked back in bed upstairs, Quinn galloped down a floor and made her way to the master bedroom where Thing One lay sleeping. Although not as tall as his younger brother, Josh took up a good chunk of the bed and snored like a supersonic jet. She never knew a human could emit that level of decibels. A big bare foot stuck out from underneath the mangled blankets and his features were lax, peaceful. He looked every bit the little boy she remembered instead of the angry young man who mostly brushed her off last night. And rightfully so, she supposed.

Josh grumbled in his sleep and his foot wiggled farther out from under the covers. A blonde eyebrow arched as a terrible idea crossed her mind. The temptation was too great.

The forty-two-year-old mother sat down on the end of the bed, taking her son's foot in her lap. "This little piggy went to market…" She waggled his big toe and chuckled to herself as he twitched. Her grip firmed; she didn't need him breaking her face before a photoshoot. "This little piggy stayed home."

He snorted and jerked again. Quinn moved on to the third "piggy", tickling the sole of his foot along the way. Thank God she had a good hold on the clodhopper. She used this technique as an alarm many a morning when he was younger. The kid had a kick like a 12 gauge shotgun even back then. "This little piggy had synthetically cultivated roast beef, and this little piggy had none. And _this_ little piggy had—"

"Don't even." The voice was snarky, but not altogether mean. Quite cautionary, actually.

For a second she considered finishing the rhyme then thought better of it. She had no desire to start the day with a pissy teenager. Fighting with Rachel had taken too much out of her and she couldn't stomach fighting with her son, too. So, Quinn chose to heed the warning and accepted that her plan backfired. She tossed his foot away. "It's wake-up time, Bubbas. We have to talk."

Although bleary, his hazel eyes glared at her. Evidently, she was no longer allowed to call him that. Mentally bulleting "Bubbas" (and its source "_bubbeleh_" just to be safe) on a new list of unwelcome endearments, she began.

"Mama needs a favor."

Quinn explained the situation, speaking to him as adult and making it very clear that participating in a _Vanity Fair_ photo session was his choice. She wouldn't bribe him or beg; she wouldn't threaten or force; and her guilting was relatively minor because she already knew he cared about his mama and would do nigh on anything for her.

"It'll really help?" He'd sat up by now, leaning against the headboard and drawing random lines on the bedsheets. But he wasn't looking at her.

"Yes." She nodded though he couldn't see then sighed and ran a hand through her hair, fatigued. "It'll help put her back out there. Renew interest in her career."

Now Josh's gaze weighed upon her. "What's in it for you?"

"Well," Quinn gnawed her lower lip, thinking how best to answer him. It wasn't as though she could claim altruism. "One, it gives me more time with you and your brother and sister. I know that's probably the biggest drawback for you, but it's everything to me, Josh. I can't," she blew out a shaky breath. "I can't take being away from you guys for so long."

"Says the woman who left us home all the time."

Deserved, but cutting. "I was never gone this long, though, Josh. The longest was a month, not five. And I do regret it."

Josh flung back the blankets and shot out of bed. She was scum to him; she could see it in his eyes. She wondered if this was worth the effort since he'd made up his mind about her already. Was it the same as she might have done with Russell? Would she have given her father the chance to apologize if he wanted it? Or would she have condemned him for even trying?

"I know you don't belie—"

"What's the second reason?"

That was the crux of it. Quinn stood and approached her son. The nervous habit of playing with her fingers returned as it was wont to do during her most trying hours. Taking a deep breath, she confessed her biggest fear to her son. "This may be the last thing she'll ever let me do for her."

With an angle to match her own, Josh's eyebrow rose, hiding under the shaggy locks covering his forehead.

Quinn pushed on, uncertain where this explanation was coming from. "I haven't been there for her in a long while. I'm trying to change that, to be supportive like I used to be. It won't be enough to fix this, but it's something. No, I don't know what's going to happen after today, but if anything, it's a start to civility, Josh."

Only the patter of the rain outside interrupted the silence between them. The sixteen-year-old's gaze measured and weighed her with the kind of judgment privy to angry, wounded children whose parents fucked up in a big way. She held his stare, letting him assess her and ascertain the truth in her words. Speaking before the UN on behalf of the WHO for the first time was trifling in comparison.

"Please help me do this for her." Okay, now she was begging. Quinn wasn't above begging when it came to her family, when it came to Rachel. "You can hate me as much as you want afterward, but please, Bub—Josh," she caught herself, barely. The mother wasn't willing to risk losing whatever ground she might have gained by using a nickname he didn't want to hear. "Please."

Joshua could be just as cold as Quinn. She was well acquainted with the kind of rejection he may throw at her. He turned away, and she dropped one hand to her waist while her face fell to the palm of the other. At least she could be photographed with Rachel. It wouldn't generate nearly as much interest as a spread featuring the kids, but Geoffrey would make do. The mothers had no plans to make celebrities of their children or exploit personal photos of them to random gossip rags, nor would they agree to this again. The pug-faced man had the power of spin and marketing, so he'd just have to do whatever it took to get Rachel back in the public sphere and make him money.

The sigh pouring from him was heavy, too heavy for someone his age. She looked up in time to spot the imperceptible nod of his head. "Okay."

"Thank you," she said, unafraid of the relief and gratitude flooding her voice. Finally, something was going right.

Josh continued to stare out the window. He made no acknowledgment of her words, keeping his back to her and tilting his head to the side, watching the rain. "Looks like it might be sunny today…"

Quinn looked past him at the gray clouds blanketing the sky and the water pouring down in sheets. _Sunny_. The word they'd used to replace "I love you" because no teenaged boy told his mommy in public he loved her. Josh could tell his mama without a second thought, but things had changed between the doctor and her son as time went by and she was around less and less. There was a distance that wouldn't allow either of them to be vulnerable. Saying "I love you" made someone vulnerable and gave others the power to destroy. So they stopped saying it. Fear of weakness must be embedded in the Fabray bloodline—she prayed self-loathing wasn't hereditary, too. But he said their word. The name of the bedtime song he'd always demanded she sing whenever she was the one to put him down for the night and the very same he asked her to sing last night. Something like hope ignited within her. "You think so?"

"Maybe. Sunnier than it's been in months." He glanced over his shoulder at her, his face unreadable. No, he wasn't talking about the weather, and he couldn't hide the tremble of his chin.

Neither could she. Quinn bit her lip and tried for a connection, hoping she wasn't crossing boundaries she couldn't see. "I've missed sunny days."

The young man huffed out a giant breath, fogging a small portion of the window glass. "Me too." He pivoted and stalked out of the room, not raising his eyes from the floor.

He was gone, but it didn't mean she'd lost him.

Shaky hands ran over her face as Quinn took the time to compose herself before heading back downstairs. She made it to the dining room where Daniel was setting the table. The kitchen wasn't big enough for anything larger than a café set tucked in the corner of it, so family meals were always in here, together. As together as they could be when only one parent was present, that was. Silently, she moved to assist him. He didn't say a word but did offer a polite smile which she returned. He seemed to be doing well with that.

"Are you excited? I can't tell." Danny was focused on righting the silverware.

"About the photoshoot?"

He nodded, fiddling with a fork until it met his placement standards.

"Truthfully, I'm sort of scared. Last time I did one of these was when you were little. It was for a magazine called _Time_."

"What was it like?"

The woman shrugged. She hadn't been comfortable with it at all. All the work Quinn put into getting rid of Lucy left her photogenic to an unprecedented degree. But she disliked the idea of a camera looking through her or so many people seeing her in general because every time she looked in the mirror, she still saw Lucy. Quinn couldn't risk everyone else seeing her, too. Chubby and awkward, Lucy had untamable curls and metal braces which made her self-conscious and kept her mouth closed. Russell told her so often that she needed to smile more. Not because she was prettier when she did, but because he couldn't have people thinking Russell Fabray's child was unhappy. It was bad enough she was fat and ugly (her words, not his) and couldn't live up to the benchmark of beauty her mother and sister had set, the least she could do for him was pretend to give a damn about the family's good image (his words, not hers). So she smiled when she was sad, when she was angry or lonely, when she just wanted to hide her crooked nose in a book and live in a world where daddies loved their daughters no matter what size dress they wore. She'd smiled in the hope that one day her father would love her like he used to when she'd been smaller and cute and light enough for him to carry on his shoulders. And on days she couldn't bring herself to smile for him, filling her mouth with food became a good excuse not to.

She was so afraid the world would overlook the accomplishments of her career and academic merit, past the shields and walls created by Quinn, and past the prettiness she'd forced herself to suffer for and see the truth that inside, she was still Lucy. And Lucy wasn't good enough. Not for anyone.

"I don't remember, Danny. It was a long time ago."

The boy let it go and the bell sounded right as Josh and Rachel emerged from the kitchen, hands laden with food.

"Eat. I've got it." The brunette set down the food then flew to the front door. People were already here.

Quinn sat with the boys and dug in once Josh assured her he'd saved a plate for the sleeping Ava. Rachel's voice was clear and loud enough for her to understand that the security personnel were here along with the stylist team from _Vanity Fair._ Her skin prickled. Once again food became her refuge as a forkful of scrambled eggs did its best to quell her nerves.

Her sons clearly did not share the same fears as they wolfed down their breakfasts. Conversation never happened around the Fabray-Berry boys and food. Josh was already serving himself seconds.

Rachel sped past them all to the kitchen, returning with a bowl of fruit and more coffee. "They're setting up in the study. I'll be upstairs for make-up and hair. All three of you need to shower. Joshua, your sister will need a bath. And you two—" she gestured with her mug to the boys, "better shave. No excuses," she added when Josh's egg-filled mouth opened in protest. The famous Mama Bear Berry "don't mess with me" look was out in full force.

Josh chomped down, scowling.

"Also," now she was pointing to Josh and _Quinn_. "You are not allowed to put any product in your hair lest it hinder the work of the fine and capable professionals upstairs. Let's make their jobs a little easier, shall we?"

Three heads bobbed in dumb agreement. Quinn had forgotten what it was like to be ordered around by the diva.

"Thankyou." Her voice was clipped and she sounded just like Mary freaking Poppins. In a flash, Rachel was off.

Quinn frowned; Rachel really should have won the Tony for that show.

The rest of the actress's words settled in. She'd been commanded to shower. Quinn was a fan of showers and cleanliness in general. Spending two weeks on a vaccination mission in Burundi with collected rain water and a rag _maybe _every few days made one very grateful for the luxury of bathing daily with hot water. So, that part she was fine with. The not fine part was the location and what she'd wear afterward. Was she supposed to use the master bathroom, or head straight for the guestroom's en suite? Did she put on Rachel's clothes while she waited for whatever outfit the magazine people would choose for her or throw on the sweats she slept in the night before?

"Why do I have to shave?" Daniel broke through her uncertainty.

The mother tried for a smile. "Well, that's quite the beard you have there, D."

And it was. Dark but not yet full, it made him look over ten years older than he was. It was freaky, honestly. Poor Josh, though… Josh was the one lacking when it came to facial hair. Patches of scraggly auburn fuzz dotted his cheeks and for a while he had a tassel of hair hanging from his chin that Rachel threatened to cut off if he didn't get rid of it himself. The doctor had been in her office when that fight erupted, hiding her laughter behind her hand when her melodramatic wife rushed in to get a pair of scissors to deal with the vile plague afflicting their eldest child. Quinn chuckled at the memory and the furry face in front of her frowned.

"Will you shave with me?" Daniel asked.

Ahh, so the buddy system had returned. She thought he'd outgrown this last year, but evidently now it was back. Probably as a coping mechanism since she moved out. Daniel needed routine, even if that routine was Quinn flying out every few months or staying late at work, and having her permanently gone broke that routine. The doctor shifted in her seat, uncomfortable in knowing she was the cause of such a regression. The psychologist's recommendation that Daniel learn how to share in others' experiences and invite them to share in his got lost in translation. The man meant for Danny to learn empathy by celebrating with people if they were happy or mourning with them if they were sad. Not for him to literally share a single experience together, like inviting Josh go with him to their room because Danny left his milk up there and thought his brother needed to partake in its retrieval, or asking his very female mother to shave with him. Still, she considered it. Teaching her sons to shave had actually been hilariously awkward, then just hilarious because she couldn't grow a beard. Josh said that that fact was reason enough for her to have no knowledge of this secret, manly ceremony.

She'd learned it from Russell. Flashbacks of small, still slender Lucy standing on her step-stool at the bathroom sink next to her daddy almost every morning came to mind. Doing that was of her earliest memories. Russell was an old-fashioned man. He was an old-fashioned man with old-fashioned religion and old-fashioned style and old-fashioned politics. But he never stopped his daughter from standing at the counter and watching the morning ritual of every man who wanted a "clean and honest face."

The shaving kit was a birthday gift to a young Russell from his father. Lucy would listen with wide eyes and open ears as he told her stories of her grandfather in the war and how heroic he'd been while wetting his face then lathering his special shaving soap in his special shaving mug. Made of porcelain, it was fubsy and wide, perfect for the badger hair shaving brush to stir around in and gather a soapy froth for optimal smoothness, and had a picture of a Model T printed on it in faded blue ink. That had been her grandfather's, too.

He'd swirl the brush over his cheeks and neck in hypnotizing circles and tell his darling girl all about work and what grand things he'd be doing that day, sometimes asking for a new drawing to hang in his office or if she wanted to help him tie his necktie afterward because it'd be good practice for when she had a husband. She'd hung on his every word. But whenever he brought out his razor, Lucy always got nervous. The edge was smooth and knifelike, and she didn't want Daddy to cut himself. However, she kept bacitracin and Kleenex on hand in case he had an accident and got hurt. As his special helper, it was her special job. Yet he'd smile and tell her not to worry: Daddies don't get hurt.

He was so good at it that he could keep speaking while the razorblade slid down his face, always with the grain. One time when she was four, she'd gotten bored watching the clean strokes and wasn't really listening to him talk about how his friend had a boat and that he was going to teach her how to fish that summer with her plastic Snoopy pole and red bobbers he'd given her for her birthday. Russell wanted a boy after Frannie. They'd planned for one. But the baby who was supposed to be Louis Quinn Fabray after came out all wrong. She was Lucy instead. Daddy treated her like a girl some times and like a boy other times. She never knew which one she was supposed to be for him. Because of that, while still in her pink nightgown, she'd reached past the bottle of Old Spice aftershave and picked up the brush, rubbing it over her cheeks just as she'd seen him do nearly every day. She'd wondered if it tickled his cheeks, too, and if daddies were ticklish at all. Russell had stopped mid-stroke and stared at her in the mirror with her babyface covered in white foam. And started laughing.

He laughed so hard that tears leaked from his eyes, streaking through the shaving soap on his own face. Then he'd gone to his bedroom and returned with a shiny silver box. He opened it and presented it to his daughter, informing her that it was supposed to be hers if she'd just have come out right like the doctors said when she was still in her mommy's belly. But he thought she could have it anyway. Quinn still recalled the heft of the bladeless razor in her hand, how he'd shown her the way to hold it and smooth the dull edge of the empty cartridge down her cheek, leaving a trail of clean skin behind. When she got it right, they stood side by side making faces in the mirror, father and daughter shaving. Her mom had gotten a picture of it after she came in and handed Daddy his Sloe gin and orange juice breakfast. Her parents were all smiles as Lucy proudly proclaimed how much she was "just like Daddy".

Quinn looked down at her plate, appetite gone. Things were good when she was younger, smaller. Before she got wider and became more interested in books than in baseball or camping or anything else her daddy would have shown "Louis" but had taught to Lucy by default. Once upon a time, Russell had been a good father and husband. Just like once upon a time, she'd been a good mother and wife. Quinn felt sick.

"Mom?"

She had no way of knowing how long she'd been silent, not answering Danny's question.

Josh was there at the rescue. "I'll shave with you after we take showers," he said. "That way we'll both remember to brush our teeth and put on deodorant, too."

Because Daniel sometimes forgot to do those things. That Josh never treated his brother as "different" made Quinn proud. He helped when necessary and knew when to let the younger boy learn on his own. Ava was the same, intuitively knowing what Danny could do and what he couldn't do without guidance. And Daniel had grown because of his siblings' simple and loving assistance. The result was all three of them carrying over these qualities when interacting with others. Her lips spread in a small smile. She may not have been an award-winning mother, and she and Rachel were far from perfect parents, but somewhere along the line they'd done something right.

"I'll take care of Ava, then. We'll use the guest bathroom so you guys can have the upstairs one to yourselves," Quinn said. Showering in what was now Rachel's space didn't feel right, and waiting for her sons to wash up before she could get her daughter in the bath was not time they could afford to spare today. She'd just toss Avy in the tub first then rush through her own shower. "_Tia's_ stuff is still in there, right?"

"She uses Mama's shower now."

Puzzled, Quinn looked at Daniel who was focused on his breakfast. "What, D?"

"She uses Mama's shower when she stays over because they're sleeping together."

She didn't hear that right. She couldn't have. Rachel and Santana were _sleeping together_? No, there was no way Rachel would do that to her. There was no way Santana would do that to her.

But why was Rachel so protective of Santana this morning, so quick to defend her when Quinn hadn't accused her of anything? And why was Santana lying to both Quinn and Rachel about one not wanting to see the other? No... She shook her head. Daniel was mistaken.

The blonde glanced at her oldest child for some kind of rebuttal to his brother's statement. For him to tell her Daniel was wrong or had mixed something up. Instead, she got a statue. His eyes were trained on his plate and his jaw clenched so hard Quinn was sure he'd break his teeth. The fork in his hand was bending in his grip. No. No no no no no no, please God, no.

"Josh?"

She needed him to tell her it wasn't true, even if that itself would be a lie.

But he didn't. He didn't do anything. Didn't blink. Didn't speak. Didn't breathe.

There was a commotion from outside. Neither she nor Josh moved. Daniel watched them both before standing and turning toward the door. It opened before he took a single step, a vehement stream of Spanish and English echoing into the house.

"_¡Dios mio!_ Burly-ass mutherfuckers telling me I can't come in! _¡Pendejos! _Yeah, I'm talking to you, _cabrón! _Just try and stop me, _puto._"

To her credit, the foul-mouthed creature wasn't retreating into the safety of the townhouse. In fact, it sounded like she just stuck her neck outside to level up the taunting.

"That's right, _huelebichos_, come and get me now. Hmmph. Tellin' me I can't come in mah damns house."

Quinn, who'd collapsed back in her chair in defeat, jerked upright then bolted out of the dining room. She stopped at the edge of the foyer to see the door bang shut and stared down the intruder. Because that's what this woman was now. Unwelcome.

Black eyes went wide and full, plum colored lips parted in silent surprise. Rare was the day the mouthy lawyer was caught mute, especially since she'd only now been cussing out two security guards like she'd just come back from Lima Heights Adjacent with an even bigger chip on her shoulder. That shocked visage was priceless.

However, the doctor couldn't enjoy it for the dread and rage roiling within her. Her hands balled into fists at her sides the instant the visitor spoke.

"Quinn?" The raven haired woman swallowed and attempted a friendly smile. "You're here."

The blonde kept her face perfectly blank, broadcasting nothing of her suspicions about her longtime friend's misleading of Rachel about divorce proceedings, nor the fury born from Daniel's off-handed remark about the traitor staying in her home. In her bed. _With her __wife__._

"Quinn?" Fast feet trampled down the stairs. "What on Earth is going on? I heard shouting and the door sl—" Rachel skidded to a halt on the landing, hair curlers askew, "slam… H-hi, Tana." Her voice was quiet, hesitant, and… frightened?

Maybe.

Quinn ignored their words. She zeroed in on the two women before her, her eyes darting back and forth in search of _something_. All she found were anxious stares and tense bodies.

"Hi, S," she said without feeling. Years of hiding her emotions proved useful and she kept her voice a steady, uncaring monotone. "How long have you been fucking my wife?"

The brunettes' eyes met. They spoke simultaneously, the same words but in different languages.

"_Ya coño_."

"Oh shit."

That was confirmation enough for her. Quinn's world went red.


	17. All In Love Is Fair

Disclaimers: I don't own Glee or its characters. Just this AU.

* * *

In her existence, Rachel Fabray-Berry twice experienced how truly relative time could be.

The first was long ago, during the summer between her sophomore and what would have been her junior year of college had she continued at Tisch. Touring as an ensemble member and first understudy to Maureen in _RENT_ was nothing to sniff at and a hard won role. But the minute she heard the word "emergency" on her voicemail Rachel waived her time on stage and a twelve hour drive from Detroit and charged her special crisis credit card for a two-hour flight to Connecticut. To get to New Haven Hospital. To get to Quinn. Who had been in surgery when she arrived. Complications of an already dangerous situation arose while Rachel was in the air and her first question of "_is she okay?"_ was quickly followed by "_what the fuck is sepsis?_".

Proper and polite language had fallen by the wayside. Her girlfriend was unconscious on the operating table to repair a perforated ulcer while a fever raged through her and antibiotics combatted the infection putrefying the blood that pumped the only heart that mattered in Rachel's world, her own included. It didn't matter to her that it was all brought on by Quinn adding more courses to her biochemistry major once she'd decided on pre-med, which meant the blonde had been living on one thousand milligrams of ibuprofen multiple times a day, strong coffee and was, unbeknownst to Rachel, smoking nearly a pack a day to deal with the stress. What mattered was that Quinn survived. That night of pacing and praying remained the second most chilling experience of her life and lasted what felt like a week.

What topped it on both accounts of panic and length was the day she broke three fingers of Quinn's left hand as they paused in dread after Rachel's final push in a Mt. Sinai hospital birthing house almost two decades later.

Those fifteen seconds of unnatural silence as they waited to hear the cries of new life and stared at a blue tinted baby lasted years, and Rachel's definition of fear was forever changed. Only two things ever truly scared her in the entirety of her life: the possibility of losing Quinn before they really got started; and the possibility of not having Ava—their "pleasant sound of life"—at all.

Now, as Rachel watched Quinn's fist fly and their oldest friend's head snap back, she felt a new kind of horror and yet another occasion of time's relativity. It was frame-by-frame slow motion yet faster than a camera shutter could blink. Santana slumped against the front door, dropping a grocery bag of junk food and a six pack of grape soda. White-purple fizz blasted the entryway like sea-spray and the hiss was all the singer heard as the lawyer retaliated and lunged at Quinn, burying her shoulder into the taller woman's abdomen and slamming her diagonally into the wall opposite Rachel.

She couldn't think. Couldn't process what was right in front of her. They were really fighting. Worse than that time in high school. That teenaged bitchfight was a minor fuss compared to this brawl.

Quinn's left hand seized black hair while her right fist connected on an angle with Santana's back. Rachel watched it connect with firm muscle covered by a leather jacket wet with rain. She couldn't believe it: her wife just kidney-punched their best friend.

Hateful words were absent, leaving only harsh breathing and gasps here and there as the two tumbled to the floor, rolling in the puddle of purple carbonated drink and crunching bags of chips and candy underneath them. Each gained the advantage more than once. Santana wailed on Quinn's stomach until Quinn pushed her up with a grip on her windpipe and landed a clean right hook to her eye. Then they rolled again and Santana's head banged into the hardwood flooring. There was a dull thud before the grunt of pain, and the smaller woman thrust the heel of her hand up into a square chin. Quinn fell backward on her ass, dazed. Vivid crimson trickled from pink lips and painted teeth bared in a fierce growl.

Enraged, the blonde lurched forward but Santana clapped both palms to the sides of Quinn's head, boxing elfin ears Rachel knew to be incredibly sensitive. She couldn't take it anymore.

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" She was shrieking but to no avail. They weren't hearing her. In fact, they were so caught up in the fight they didn't notice Rachel at all and collided with her feet, tripping her back into the staircase banister and knocking the wind out of her. The shock of it all left her stock-still and muffled everything but the sounds of the fists and bodies fiercely beating one another. No sooner did her faculties return than did Quinn straddle Santana's waist, not allowing the woman to fully sit up. She executed a perfect one-two combination punch, her left hand crossing a dark-skinned cheek while the right landed squarely on Santana's nose.

Rachel knew she didn't dream that crack. Her ears weren't so inventive. And they didn't have to be. The auditory memory of her own nasal fracture during a glee club dance rehearsal was immediate. And neither was the red liquid pouring down over parted lips a product of her imagination. Santana's head lolled back and Quinn gripped the lapels of her jacket, looking ready to administer a series of blows upon that bruising face until there was nothing but blood and pulpy flesh. But she didn't.

Panting, she stared down the lawyer with a wounded suffering so deep Rachel felt it rend her own soul. Then she flung Tana to the floorboards, clearly washing her hands of her closest friend. Except… Santana's blood was all over her knuckles. But Quinn was done. She fell back against the wall, legs drawn up with her elbows on her knees and palms to her forehead. Crying. Quinn was crying.

"How?" She hiccoughed. "How the fuck could you do this?"

Rachel wasn't sure to which of them she was speaking. She was still trying to comprehend exactly what just happened. What Quinn was asking was unfounded, however. She never, to use her wife's vulgar words, "fucked" Santana. She thought about it, yes. No lie, there. During the week up in Mountain Dale, the day after Quinn left, Rachel entertained the idea of falling into bed with her friend. She was hurting and wanted to feel something other than despair. And Tana was there for her, taking care of her and the children without question or asking for anything in return. The brokenhearted woman mistook it for a kind of love it certainly wasn't, on either of their parts. The lawyer was the sister the actress never had, never her lover.

There was a gurgle. And a wheezing, wet cough. Then another gurgle.

Quinn's foot extended and she kicked Santana's side, shoving her over to lie face down. Rachel watched in physical and emotional disgust as blood hemorrhaged from the attorney's nose, then gasped as a gush of it spewed from Santana's mouth, too.

Brown eyes landed on the livid jade orbs glaring at the bleeding woman. Bits of genuine concern underlined the betrayal and hatred, and the diva understood. Santana had been choking on her own blood. Furious or not, the doctor wasn't going to let the woman die.

"Holy shit." Joshua's voice came from the end of the hall.

Rachel's full awareness returned and she wheeled around. "Go upstairs. Take your brother and go upstairs."

Blindfolding Daniel to pass the mess of flesh in front of her crossed her mind. Neither of her sons needed to see this, especially not Daniel, but it was too late for Joshua.

Moisture stung her eyes. Since when was _she_ crying? When did that become okay in this situation? She'd watched the whole thing in detached fascination and horror like the trainwreck it was. _Now_ the fear and panic raced through her veins. Her spouse and the closest friend she'd ever had were on the ground, both bleeding, both broken. Rachel approached Santana, visually assessing the damage and knowing she should be helping her first since she was the more battered of the two women. But everything in her was pulling her toward Quinn, so Rachel went to her wife. Blood gathered at the doctor's temple, a coagulating sludge in silvery blonde hair. Had so many of those platinum strands existed before the altercation? Or was Quinn so frightened by her assumption that she'd gone white? She flinched away as Rachel kneeled and reached to inspect her injuries.

"Don't." It was a half sob, half moan of pain. "God please don't touch me. Not after…" Watery eyes looked at Santana, purposely avoiding Rachel. "Not after that. Not after you…"

The actress schooled her features and ignored the command. She flatted the legs in front of her then straddled them, sitting atop her wife's thighs and holding back struggling hands. Quinn was too weak to fight anymore; the adrenaline quickly dissipating. Her forehead fell to Rachel's shoulder, surely staining the plain robe she wore. Fifteen minutes ago she'd been upstairs, changing out of her shirt so as not to get make-up on her clothing, keeping her bra and jeans and donning her bathrobe for modesty's sake. Now said robe was absorbing the consequence of primal justice for a crime never committed.

"It's not what you're thinking, Quinn," she said into scarlet ears that had to be stinging so badly. "I've never slept with Santana."

"Bullshit." Obviously Joshua took after Rachel and disregarded her directions to get out of here.

Her shoulders tensed all the more and she looked at her son. Really? Even he thought she was sleeping with his aunt?

"If you two aren't fucking, then why is she here—in your bed—at least once a week?" The teen's hands balled into the fabric of his pajama pants and his eyes were a sinister green. The set of his jaw, his rigid posture, the arch of his brow: he was every bit Quinn. It was frightening. So much so that she wasn't about to reprimand him for his language, or the cruelty in his voice. That'd happen later.

Rachel had never been scared of her boy nor was she worried he'd do anything to her. It was more of what he would do to himself in his anger. She'd seen him get in fights on the hockey rink as far back as his days in the pee-wee leagues, and she'd seen Quinn punch through a wall once after the first time she lost a patient during her internship in the pediatrics unit. The two of them had a bad habit of physically and verbally lashing out rather than talking about their feelings, often injuring themselves in the process. She didn't need her son breaking his hand in the drywall of their home like his mother had done in their Washington Heights apartment.

A raspy answer to his question came not from her, but from the woman behind her. The voice was muffled and sounded soggy. "No one likes to cry alone, _mijo_. Especially not at night."

"You... cry? Still?" Quinn sounded like a confused child. Did she honestly not know how badly Rachel was hurting, too? Couldn't she see how much it was killing her for them to be apart?

Rachel's eyes closed and she released pale, slender wrists, encircling Quinn in her arms. Quinn, who remained stiff and unyielding for the most part. She didn't feel bad about directing her words only at her wife instead of responding to Joshua. "Sometimes," she admitted with a whisper. "On the bad nights, Tana sleeps over. _Sleeps_," she stressed. "That's all."

Quinn took a calming breath. "But, but Danny said…"

"Said what?" Daniel's bulky frame filled the threshold to the living room. "Whoa. That's blood, isn't it?" He gnawed on a piece of bacon, and Rachel couldn't interpret his reaction. "That's a lot of blood, too. That's a lot of blood, _Tía_." He repeated the last line as though making sure she heard him.

Santana, somehow, laughed. Then snorted out a fresh burst of red slime. "That'd it be, D. Get me a towel and ice pack?"

He nodded and went about his task. Rachel wasn't sure if he understood all the blood was because his mommy and auntie just beat the hell out of each other, but at least one of her boys followed instructions.

"So…you're not…?" Joshua trailed off.

Rachel pictured the confusion on his face before turning to actually see it. She shook her head at him. "Never, _bubbelah_. I know it seems impossible, but I've only ever been with one person like that." She rested her cheek upon golden hair, figuring Quinn wouldn't care if it got wet from the line of tears escaping the corner of her eye since it was matted with sweat and a little bit of blood anyway.

Their oldest child digested this news then slowly, oh so slowly, relaxed. Now there were slack hands and drooping shoulders in place of fists and the hard line of his body. His brother returned with the towel and ice pack for Santana who sluggishly rolled over then held out her hand for assistance off the floor.

"Uppsy-daisy, _chiquito. Por favor._"

Poor Daniel never knew his own strength. He jerked Santana to her feet, eyes going wide at the sharp cry coming from her. Rachel tensed as well, and pangs of sympathy went out to both of them.

"S-sorry! I'm sorry!" He looked panicked that he'd hurt his aunt all the more.

The woman groaned and doubled over, yet tried to put her nephew's mind at ease. "It's cool. Nothing's broken."

There was a sniffle against Rachel's chest then Quinn lifted her head, tilting it to the side and staring over the smaller woman's shoulder. "Actually, S… I, uh… I really did break your nose."

"Figured." Santana probably rolled both eyes, but the left one was swelling so quickly Rachel couldn't tell. "Those meat hooks of yours ain't half bad. Sylvester would be proud." She started to sway.

Hurriedly, Rachel was on her feet and under her friend's arm, supporting her weight. Quinn was there, too, only slower and taking the smaller brunette's place to prop up her former teammate. A silent conversation passed between them and the quiet drove Rachel mad; she couldn't handle it if they decided throw down in the middle of the foyer again. Actually, she wouldn't be able to handle them fighting again at all.

"Lucky shot, though. I was about to go all Lima Heights on your ass."

Dear God, they were embracing, tentative and awkward though it was. What the hell was wrong with these two? They were like frat boys: beating the shit out of each other then hugging it out. The women, wet with blood and grape soda, stumbled up the staircase. Leaving three very confused people behind them.

"Mom's not gonna kill her, right?"

"Doctors don't kill people. It's a rule; they have to promise and everything."

Joshua shook his head at his brother's response. Rachel fidgeted with the robe belt about her waist, fretting. She wasn't as trusting as Daniel. But she didn't hear anything else. No sounds of a continued struggle or someone screaming. Then again, one could just be smothering the other. If that were the case, her money was on Quinn. God, what was wrong with _her_? She just witnessed a horrific knock-down-drag-out between the two most important women in her life and she was snarking about who would survive if they went another round? She planned to later chalk it up to shock. Yes, that sounded best. She dropped her head, chin to her chest, and stared at the pool of mucus, blood, and purplish soft drink staining the floor. Without a second thought, she took off her robe and covered the patch of thick maroon liquid in particular. The sound of a slap startled her.

"Uh… Mama?" Daniel had both hands over his eyes. "You're kinda naked."

Sweet Daniel. Jeans and a bra did not naked make. Still, Rachel hadn't realized that, yeah, she was mostly topless in front of her sons. Too late to fix it, either. Her ivory robe was already half red. Joshua had already taken off his shirt and was handing it to her, courteously averting his gaze.

"Sorry. I didn't think." She pulled it on over the loose curlers in her hair, clucking her tongue at the diagonal lettering of R-A-N-G-E-R-S slashing across her chest. Joshua really needed clothing that wasn't hockey team apparel to cover that six-pack of his. He also needed a healthy dose of fat on his body. Rachel's _bubbe_ would have a fit if she were alive to see his wiry form, demanding he sit down so she could overfeed him like she'd tried to do with the very active teenaged diva. However, both her sons were bottomless pits. _Bubbe_ wouldn't have been able to cook fast enough to keep them full. "Thanks, Bubbas. I'm decent."

The boys shuffled awkwardly and Rachel repressed a sad smile. They were adorable and such gentlemen. Strange how they could retain a level of maturity Quinn and Santana lost in the heat of accusation and abuse. Shaking her head, she told Joshua to get rags and the sterilant spray so she could clean up the mess and disinfect the crime scene while she charged Daniel with clearing the breakfast table. Before the boys could take a step out of the hall, a great shout echoed from above.

"AHHHHHHHH! _¡QUE HOSTIA_, that hurt! No!_ ¡Vete pa'l carajo_ _so cabrona!_ You're done— Goddamnit I said stop touching it!"

She cringed, knowing exactly what just happened and how it felt. Granted, this was probably much worse than what she'd felt at the doctor's office during high school. Poor Tana.

"What was that?" asked Daniel, bug-eyed and alarmed.

Rachel released a heavy sigh then crouched down and wiped her robe over the blood. "_Tía__'s_ nose is fixed."


	18. I Can See Clearly Now

Disclaimers: Glee is not mine but this story is.

Thank you all so much for the reviews and comments. Truly flattering, thank you.

* * *

"You're paying for my nose job."

It was the first time either spoke since she'd been cussed out for realigning the fractured bones in Santana's nose. Which was a while ago. The tape-splint would hold for the day, but the brunette would need to see a doctor later. Yes, the household medipac was more fully stocked when compared to commercially available first aid kits, but sadly Dr. Fabray didn't have everything a physician's office would. Still, it was a clean break and an easy set. The blonde shook her head with a wan smile on her face.

"You won't need surgery."

"Maybe I just want an upgrade," Santana said. "Only fair that you shell out for it since, you know, it's your fault I'm a mouthbreather now."

Quinn's half-hearted chuckle faded until silence again settled around them as they sat together on the bathroom counter. It wasn't awkward, nor was there the tension most normal people might have felt after…well, after kicking the shit out of each other. What was done was done, and they weren't going to talk about it. That was how they worked. Friendships could be complicated things. But they had an understanding, which was that this would never be mentioned again. Ever. So, the two women sat—one positioned to prevent any more blood from dripping down her postnasal cavity to her stomach, while the other reclined against the mirror behind them—each letting the last waves of adrenaline ebb with every breath. Heavy questions could wait and confessions would go unspoken. For now.

She drew her feet up to rest flat on the marble countertop, knees pointing toward the ceiling. Her abdominal muscles protested the action, but whatever pain she was feeling came second to her friend because, yes, that broken nose was her fault. Santana sort of leaned her head on Quinn's shoulder, the two tucking into each other like they'd done as teenagers. Her cheek rested on black hair and she grimaced. It was sticky and smelled like grape.

"You need a shower."

"Like you don't."

They were a mess. Drying soda crinkled their skin, and the bits and pieces of junk food in their hair and on their clothes were just nasty. Then there was the blood. That was mostly gone, though. Their faces and hands were washed clean, but both had bruised knuckles and Santana's left eye was swollen completely shut. The cold compress on her face wasn't worth much now. Quinn, on the other hand, lucked out with only a few scrapes. Her teeth sliced through her inner cheek when Santana landed the open-handed uppercut, and the laceration at her hairline was superficial. Her _Katzir_ suture laser (which had to heat to 65°C and singed a bit of her hair as well as left the inside of her mouth stinging) closed both cuts neatly enough. Having it in the house made Rachel nervous even though hospitals and EMTs in the field had been using them since the women were in college. But after a four-year-old Josh slipped on the ice and slashed his calf with one of his skate blades during one summer's vacation, the hysterical diva was thankful Quinn disobeyed her and bought the diode laser anyway. Josh was happy with it, too, because he didn't need stitches and got "all-bettered" by a lightsaber because Mommy was a Jedi. _Doctor_ Jedi, he'd said.

She looked at her friend, ashamed. She was a doctor. And "do no harm" was part, though not verbatim, of the Hippocratic Oath she'd sworn almost twenty years ago. Yet here she was, responsible for someone's injuries and suffering. No, not someone. Santana. She'd hurt _Santana_.

"Quit it."

Quinn frowned. "What?"

It took some effort but Santana managed to push off of Quinn and sit upright. "Stop being all heavy. I have a broken nose and I can _smell_ the guilt."

"I'm so sorry, S." That sentence didn't seem big enough for how truly remorseful she was.

Her friend shrugged and struggled to take off her jacket, predictably refusing Quinn's attempt at helping. "Whatever. Gotta do what ya gotta do, right? Guess you just needed to hit something." The jacket landed on the bathroom floor with a plop, and Santana turned and glared at Quinn with her uninjured eye. "But if you ever, ever, do something like that again, I'll make Rachel a widow."

Not one part of Quinn doubted that statement.

"Look, I jumped to a stupid conclus—"

"You're damn right you did!" Oh, angry San. Angry San was not a fun San to be around. Quinn had it coming, though.

"Thinking I slept with Rachel? That's fucked up, Q. Seriously fucked up."

She was off the counter and hobbling from one foot to the other as she took off her tall black boots. Quinn didn't bother offering assistance this time. Now was not an occasion when Santana wanted help. Neither of them could physically take another fight, but the other woman needed to shout and unleash her own anger. So Quinn let her. It was the least she could do to provoke her and make her get it all out. Because that's how they worked, fucked up as it was.

"What else was I supposed to think?" Quinn snapped. "You're in my house, in bed with my wife and you…" happen to be a notorious womanizer who'd screwed half the women in Manhattan. "You and Rachel are close. It's not so out of the realm of possibility, okay?"

Contrary to what most people thought, Santana Lopez did not enjoy being angry. The anger was always there, though. And all things considered, she did have a lot to be pissed about in her life. While she repressed it as much as possible, some always leaked out as snarky bitchiness toward others. It was unhealthy. And it alienated people. Over time, Quinn learned that if she pushed just the right way, Santana would let go and just be mad and get it over with. So, obligingly, she prodded the sleeping dragon again. And, honestly, she needed answers just as much as Santana needed to rant.

"You can talk about how the kids are for days, but the minute I ask about Rachel you shut me down. You push me to get back in their lives then tell me to stay away from my wife because she doesn't want to see me. You give her bullshit legal advice about the divorce and let us both suffer, not going anywhere and missing each other like hel—"

"That was the goddamned point!" Santana shouted. "Take a minute and stop and fuckin' think, Q! What's the longest you ever been away, huh? A month? Six weeks? What about her? Off filming whatever the hell then making the rounds on late night TV to promote it. You still talked to each other. Almost every damn day you could, you two were at least on speaking terms even if you were fighting. Yeah, it may have been short and awkward and turned into worse fights sometimes but you still spoke. God, you found a signal in the middle of the fuckin' Sahara just to say goodnight once."

Boots thudded on the tile floor, and the fuming lawyer was undoing the button of her jeans. Quinn stared, open-mouthed. Not from the sight, but from the words. S never interfered with Quinn and Rachel's relationship. She was there to listen or distract when necessary, but she didn't try and fix things. Yet… It seemed this divorce was affecting not just the Fabray-Berry family, but Santana as well. And she was right: these past five months were the longest Quinn and Rachel had ever gone without hearing from or seeing one another. And it'd wrecked her.

"So that was the plan? Keep me away so I could miss her? That's the _worst_ fucking excuse I've ever heard."

Down to nothing but her lavender bra and matching underwear, Santana freed her hair from its ponytail and grimaced at the rat's nest it was. She shot the hair-tie at Quinn like a rubberband, only to have it veer off course. Her depth perception was off, what with having one eye bloated shut and all. "But _do_ you miss her?"

Quinn had never missed anything the way she missed Rachel. God damn Santana Lopez.

The doctor closed her eyes and banged her head against the mirror. .cliché. The great manipulation of silence and misdirection was nothing more than testing how long she and Rachel could stand being apart from each other. Probably so they could see exactly what the other one meant and what they were missing in their marriage—in their lives. She wanted to cry again but knew she didn't have the tears for it. "Yes. I miss her."

"Then I did my job. Now," Santana's voice was much softer, tender almost. "What do you miss?"

Hazel eyes peeped open, unsure what Santana was asking. She was also bemused by the way the forty-two-year-old lawyer stood in the middle of the guestroom's small en suite like she owned it, not caring who could walk through and see her half-nude. Quinn craned her neck to glance at the door they'd left open (mainly because it wasn't nearly as big as the renovated master bathroom and she hated feeling enclosed) but her sight was limited from where she was sitting. Whatever. The boys wouldn't come in here, and by now Rachel was back with the hair and make-up people or getting Ava ready.

Rachel. What did she miss? "Everything" was too easy an answer and she knew Santana would press for specifics. Quinn puffed out her cheeks as she debated in what order to name all the reasons.

"She…she used to hijack my phone and change the background. Sometimes it was pictures of her but then it turned into shots of the kids. Of us. She'd write silly notes then photograph them with my phone instead of just messaging me. She made playlists for me all the time. When I was still at Yale, she mailed me a Valentine in the middle of September. And she'd hide stuff in my dorm room for me to find after she left.

"On our six month anniversary of being "official", she set up a scavenger hunt around Lima for me. It ended at the Crouse Performance Hall. I don't know how she did it, but I got there and it was just her. Just her and a piano on stage under a spotlight. Singing." Singing like she'd never heard Rachel sing before. Like she wasn't performing, she was living it. Just for Quinn. She couldn't help but smile at the memory.

Santana was smiling, too. Sort of. In her own Santana way. "Some tired Streisand song and dance number?"

Quinn laughed. "No. That stupid Judy Garland song, _You Made Me Love You_." She'd laughed when Rachel first started singing it, too, thinking it was kitsch and cheesy and being played far too slow and jazzy than it was written to be and loving every damned note of it. "It was perfect."

Santana paused and leaned into the wall opposite Quinn, next to the shower. "What did you do for her?"

"Hangman," the blonde answered. "I'd come up with little phrases and break into her locker then we'd go back and forth until she figured it out. Usually something silly and romantic like song lyrics. Or Words With Friends? I'd try like hell to spell something simple and sweet, and she'd just fire back with the highest scoring word she could make, completely missing what I was doing." Quinn shook her head, remembering and loving how oblivious Rachel could be sometimes.

"And sketches. I made her a coloring book and bought her crayons for when she got sick. In college, I'd send drawings of her, of us, of what she'd look like accepting her Tony Award or a caricature of her in whatever role she was playing."

Most of them were scribbled on napkins from coffee houses when her brain couldn't handle anymore science and she just needed a break. Rachel was always the first thing that came to mind, making her smile and relax and remember everything would be okay. They were stuffed into a packaging envelope along with handwritten letters because Rachel found it romantic and extolled the virtues of good penmanship, claiming it was a dying art and that Quinn would need the practice as it was because doctors were "especially infamous for illegible script".

Things used to be good, used to be simple.

They used to have silly conversations. Conversations how Quinn's handwriting was "deplorable" when Rachel had pretty misshapen lettering herself. Conversations about stupid "misreads". Like how a bumper sticker that said _I 3 Labrador Retrievers_ somehow became _I 3 Lambada Relievers_ and sparked great speculation as to what a Lambada Reliever actually was. A pinch-hitter on the dance floor for a partner who threw a disc in his back? A painkiller for the whiplash suffered by women who were spun too hard, or who too vigorously sashayed in high heels?

"You two are repulsive. If I didn't want to taste my own blood again I'd throw up just to show you how disgusted I am by your sugarcoated candyland courtship."

Santana pivoted and turned on the shower. Waiting for the water to heat wouldn't take long. Quinn watched her look to the bathroom door like she was trying to decide whether or not to close it, but she shrugged and unhooked her bra just the same, seemingly not caring.

Quinn, however, remained unfazed. She could not count how often they'd seen each other naked. Mostly it was after Cheerios practice or a game. As they got older it became much more frequent, especially when Quinn was visiting from Yale to stay at the apartment Rachel and Santana shared in NoLita during undergrad. Because of that, there was simply no accounting for all the times they'd walked in on each other having sex, either. Sometimes when that happened, Quinn was first to get the update of what new random woman her friend had moved on to after the _last_ random woman and shared the gossip with a post-rehearsal Rachel so the indomitable little diva could annoy the hell out of Santana until she caved and admitted whether she was finally dating someone, or just screwing around as per usual. Whenever Santana caught them, though, she'd roll her eyes at their "boring sex" and tell them they were doing it wrong before dodging whatever Quinn threw at her while Rachel's powerhouse voice drove her out of the room, laughing.

A grin pulled at the corners of her mouth and she closed her eyes again, still leaning back on the counter. She heard the glass door of the shower stall open and close as Santana stepped in.

"Don't let the spray hit your face directly, okay? Just, splash it a little like they do in acne face wash commercials."

"Ha. Like any of those pretty Proactiv bitches ever had a real problem with zits." The smell of pomegranate body wash permeated the air, and the lawyer continued her questions. "Okay, so that was all shit you did eons ago. What do you miss now?"

"What? You want a list?"

"You know how I likes me some efficacious and methodically organized catalogues and agendas."

The ghetto, wrong-side-of-the-tracks accent was a little much, but still made Quinn smile.

"Fine. _Counselor_." Was it weird that they could be playful after the ordeal downstairs? Eh, it was just what they did, she supposed. How they somehow always found a way back on track.

"I miss her laugh. Not her polite red carpet one," she was quick to clarify. "But her real one. That big, booming laugh that starts in her belly then rises through her chest until it's this high twitter that's kind of nasally and all in her head." Sometimes it turned into obnoxious snorts or hiccoughs when Rachel tried to catch her breath and hold back the laughter. "I miss that."

Santana's head popped out of the shower, eyes darting around from the door to the counter until she finally settled on Quinn. Which was weird because Quinn hadn't moved. The doctor frowned, she needed to give S a more thorough examination once she was finished.

"Keep going, Q. If I can'ts listen to mah jams while getting all zestfully and squeaky clean, I might as well listen to your dumb ass talk."

The blonde scoffed. Santana could pull up her own stations on the HausCloud and ignore Quinn for the rest of the day if she wanted.

"I miss how she freaks over finances even though we've got more money than we know what to do with. And how she cringes and can't watch parts of Josh's games then blames me for why she missed seeing him score or something. I miss the way she steals my foot when she sleeps and—"

"The hell?" Santana interrupted. "What does that mean?"

Quinn tilted her head to the right, nonplussed. Both San and Rachel admitted to Santana staying the night in Rachel's bed—platonically, she reminded herself—fairly often. She should know what the doctor was talking about.

"Like, when you're sleeping and her feet capture one of yours and holds it hostage for the rest of the night. And she'll get you even if you try to move away or roll over. Like she has foot-grabbing radar and follows you even though she's like, out."

There was quiet for a moment, then, "Okay, that's just creepy. And no, she's never done that, thankyouverymuch. Sounds like a "just you" sort of freaky ass thing because my feets remain unmolested, much like everything else about me, when I sleep over."

"What?" Quinn was puzzled. Rachel _always_ did that. Seriously, it was impossible to escape the footy monster that was her wife's nocturnal alter ego.

"Jesus, are you deaf now? Did I burst your fragile little eardrums when I smacked you? I said Hobbit's never done that to me." She carried on, muttering something that sounded like "weird little ankle-biter" but Quinn ignored it. Rachel's foot kidnapping was particular to her? She honestly didn't know that. She'd assumed it was something her wife did all her life, long before they'd first shared a bed.

Huh.

"Waiting, Q," Santana said. Then, as more of an aside, "_Ay Dios mío_, this is like badgering a witness without the fun."

Right. The list. Quinn straightened and began cleaning up the bathroom. Gathering the lawyer's dirty clothes from the floor, she balled them up and set them on the counter as she packed up the first aid kit. "She leaves the cupboard doors open. Drives me nuts, but it feels weird not having to close the medicine cabinet in the mornings. Oh, and when we used go out to dinner, she'd have to re-center everything on the table. Making sure the candles are right or that the place-settings were squared. And she won't eat blue food.

"I miss how she tucks her hair behind her ears when she thinks she's being sneaky or clever. And the way her eyebrows pinch together when she's confused, or that I-know-something-you-don't-know smile when she's got a surprise or secret, which she'll spill any second because she can't keep a secret at all." The kit was ready to return to its home in the master bath, but she knew Santana wouldn't let her leave without finishing the list.

"And her smell. I miss that." She'd gotten a reminder of it this morning from the bedsheets and from their…closeness in the kitchen. It was a dark vanilla body lotion, rich and earthy with a touch of sweetness that wasn't saccharine or sickly like some scents. "She lotions up after every shower and every night before bed. It's the same stuff I got her for 18th birthday. She doesn't buy any other kind. Still. Just…just that."

"You sound like a stalker."

Tired hazel eyes rolled. "She's my wife, S. It's normal for me to know that stuff." It was, right?

"That's right, she's your wife." The water stopped and a head of slicked back ebony hair poked out from behind the steamy glass door, looking this way then that. Santana opened the shower all the way, revealing her very naked, very wet body. "Do you want it to stay that way?"

"Of course I do." Quinn was already moving to retrieve a towel for her friend, but realized there wasn't one on the one the rack. She'd have to go grab one from the linen closet. "I love her, San. That hasn't changed. I'm…I'll always love her." Her voice cracked a bit, but she refused to cry in front of Santana Lopez. Again. So Quinn turned and headed for the door. Then stopped. The doorway was blocked.

By Rachel.

Holding a pile of clean clothes and a towel, she stood, unmoving. Brown eyes shimmered behind a watery sheen, and her bottom lip was firmly caught between two rows of perfect teeth. Quinn gulped. How long had she been there? How much had she heard?

Then Rachel was in front of her, _right_ in front of her. She reached as if to caress Quinn's cheek then stopped, looking unsure. Quinn's disappointment was immediate. Instead, the brunette's fingers grazed over the cut at her temple. She shivered. It took every iota of restraint she had not to lean into that touch, afraid it would scare Rachel off. But Rachel didn't look scared. She didn't look confident or assured, either, but there was no fear on her beautiful face, just a kind of curiosity—like maybe she was seeing Quinn for the first time. Deep brown eyes searched hazels, and she really, really hoped she had whatever it was Rachel was looking for.

She must have, because in a flash Rachel's mouth was on hers. Rather, the corner of hers, like Rachel tried redirecting her lips to Quinn's cheek at the last minute. The pressure was light but definite and ended too soon for the taller woman's liking. It was gentle and nothing like the possessive, warring kisses from this morning. Their foreheads brushed together before the brunette pulled back, and Quinn took a shuddery breath.

"I'm naked and dripping wet and you two are making out. This is begging to turn into a porno."

Moment gone. Thanks San.

Quinn shot her friend a dirty look via the mirror while Rachel stepped back, suddenly fascinated by the bathroom floor.

"Miss Berry, are you read—oh holy God!"

The voice came from just behind Rachel. A woman, for sure younger than any of them, halted in the doorway, hands gripping the wooden frame and mouth dropped in awe. Roughly Quinn's height, she gaped at Santana, who'd also paused and was staring at the newcomer. Her hair was a natural black with warm burgundy undertones, and her skin could accurately be described as fair but not ghostly. She had a feminine jawline and high cheekbones, a straight but not prominent nose, and red lips shaped like Cupid's bow. Quinn couldn't begin to guess her ethnicity, though. This woman could be of Irish descent just as easily as she could be Italian, Russian, Spanish, or South American Latino with her undistinguished but very lovely features. Her eyes, however. Her eyes were what bumped the stranger from pretty to captivating. They were violet. Genuine Elizabeth Taylor violet. Violet and wide.

"You're naked."

Her voice was nice, too. A little husky, but from the way she was gawking at Santana, Quinn had reason to think it wasn't normally like that. The doctor felt a grin forming and reined it back quickly. Hazel eyes met equally amused chocolate brown ones before Rachel ducked her head and coughed. Oh. Real subtle.

"Ain't you just the perspicacious one?" Santana's voice was thick, too. Too thick and too surprised to be bitchy. Interesting. She was shivering, as well. But that could be from the chill of the air on her damp skin.

The new girl didn't react and Rachel smartly took that opportunity to toss the towel to their friend. It was easily caught and took to its purpose quickly. Santana was wringing out her hair, doing her best to look unimpressed at the woman watching her.

"You think I'm hot now?" she taunted, making no move to cover herself then inclining her head toward Quinn. "You should see me when I haven't let this one win. I'm fucking gorgeous then."

There was a snort to her left and Quinn turned to meet Rachel's eyes before she looked to the statuesque woman blocking the exit. If they couldn't leave, she might as well have some fun. "She's not kidding about the gorgeous. Drop dead."

"Stunning, actually." Rachel chimed in without missing a beat, and Quinn's jealousy was mild, thankfully. "Is there something you needed, Clarissa?"

"Clarissa" realized she was being addressed and gave her attention to Rachel, but not without stealing glimpses at Santana with almost every blink. "Umm… just. Make-up. Pictures. Checking on...yeah."

At her age, Quinn knew better than to delight in someone's embarrassment. But old habits die hard. Mainly because one on one time with Santana regressed the both of them back to seventeen years old, and she just couldn't help it. Still, she tried to rise above the urge and behave like an adult.

"I see. Well, thanks to you, I am of course ready. The children should be almost set as well, which leaves my wife responsible for the delay." She thumbed at Quinn. "She has yet to shower."

Wife. Rachel said wife. That was a good thing, right? Or was she just playing the part? Quinn wasn't sure she cared either way because it just felt good to hear it. Felt better than the half-kiss and sympathy in the actress's eyes.

"Shower. Okay." Clarissa mumbled, mesmerized by Santana and her…assets.

Rachel stared handing out orders. "Quinn, you go clean up while I check on the kids, and Santana, you need to rest. The guestroom is all yours, of course. Do you need any help? Oh, what am I thinking—of course you do."

She spun around to Clarissa before Santana could say "boo".

"Would you mind terribly helping our friend into bed? It's been quite the morning and we've still so much to do, but Santana here is obviously in no condition to be rushed right now."

The doctor was quick to grab the first aid kit and her patient's dirty clothes, shaking her head. Rachel was evil. Beautifully evil and perfect.

"Quinn, throw those in the hamper with yours. I'll worry about laundry later."

Okay, she didn't expect _that_ command. Was Rachel seriously planning on washing her clothes? Or rather, keep her around long enough to do so? "What?"

The diva leveled her with the Mrs. Fabray-Berry "don't question me" look. It was similar to her Mama Bear glare but much more intimidating. Mostly because this look usually ended with her sleeping on the couch because she loved pushing Rachel's buttons. It was doubtful that'd be happening to today, however.

She nodded then smiled weakly at Clarissa as she attempted to escape the bathroom. The younger woman stepped _in_to the bathroom to let them pass. Priceless.

Rachel was on her heels, closing the door behind them. "We're bad." She sounded almost giddy.

"Awful," Quinn agreed, pausing by the guest bed into which Clarissa would soon be "helping" Santana. Although no normal person in the lawyer's state was fit for sex and shouldn't even have the inclination toward it, the doctor reminded herself that her friend was no mere mortal. If anyone could find a way to suit their libidinous will, it was Santana Lopez. "Who is she?"

Rachel waved a hand in dismissal and turned down the covers of the queen sized bed. Making it easier for a quick tumble? "She's the hair stylist. But since I'm finished for now and you and the boys won't need anything elaborate, and Ava's curls will do as they damn well please, I don't think she'll be missed until the next round of photos.

She shrugged, completely trusting that the superstar knew what she was talking about. Rachel carefully tucked a few strands of hair behind her right ear, making Quinn smile then recall what she'd confessed to Santana. Which brought her back to the bigger moment and a more important question.

"Rachel?" How on earth was she supposed to ask this? She bit her lip awkwardly.

"I heard enough, Quinn."

"Oh." Well that was a pretty definitive shut down. Apparently Rachel wasn't happy to have overheard the private conversation. She had to get out of here. "I'll go sho—"

"No, I meant, ugh—turn around and look at me, Quinn. Please?"

She was already in the hallway but did as asked. However, she also took a few steps backward when Rachel advanced. It was stupid to do it when she knew denying the brunette anything just wasn't possible. Not today. They stared at one another, and she finally registered what the starlet was wearing.

A strapless white dress hugged her torso before flaring from her hips and swishing about her tanned legs as Rachel moved closer. Tanned, smooth legs that had been locked around Quinn's waist only a few hours ago. Matching white sandals adorned her feet and a seashell bracelet encircled her left wrist. She was the epitome of summer sweetness and smelled exactly how Quinn remembered. Briefly, the blonde wondered what she'd be wearing for the photoshoot, knowing that whatever they chose could never equal Rachel's simple elegance. Just another symbol of how not right for Rachel she was.

"I get it, Rachel." She was careful to keep her voice neutral.

"Clearly you don't, otherwise you wouldn't be doing that pouty internal retreat you do." Rachel leaned against the wall, hands trapped behind the small of her back. "What I meant was that I heard enough of the conversation. Eavesdropping was not my intention, but the door was open and Santana even looked at me a few times so I think she pressed you in order to take advantage of the situation."

Well that explained Santana "Shifty-Eyes" Lopez. Rachel looked away and all Quinn could see was a young, insecure Rachel Berry standing in front of row of high school lockers and bracing for rejection.

"Did you mean it?" The Broadway star sounded small. Infinitesimally small. "What you said—did you mean it?"

Quinn wasn't sure if the need she heard in that too quiet voice was really there or her own wishful thinking. Either way, it momentarily stole her ability to speak. Nodding unseen, she eventually croaked out a simple, "Yes." If only that one word could convey the enormity of her feelings.

"Oh. Okay." Rachel straightened and took a deep breath. "Ummm.. thank you? For being honest?"

One blonde eyebrow arched. "That sounded so—"

"Lame. I know." Olive brown cheeks carried the hint of a blush. "I don't know what else to say."

Rachel was adorable.

"I don't, either. If that helps." Quinn never had the right answers for the most important questions in their life together.

The usually flamboyant actress looked almost sheepish, eyes now aimed upward. "I wish I had something more to tell you, I really do. But I'm confused, Quinn. There's so much in my head and no matter how much I want…" Her forehead knitted together and brown eyes hid behind lightly shadowed lids. "I want too much, Quinn. I always have. And I want now. But I just don't know _what_ I want."

Blunt. Honest. Fair. It was all Quinn could hope for. She repaid the favor. "Whenever you figure it out…tell me? Tell me and I'll do it. Together or, or divorced, I'll do it."

Yup, those were tears burning her eyes. Swell. But if truth-telling and raw vulnerability were an Olympic category, then Quinn Fabray-Berry was going for the goddamned gold.

"I hate that I made you miserable for so long. I hate that I did it at all. Anything you'll let me do to work toward making this even the slightest bit better, in whatever way you want, I'll do it."

Now Rachel appraised her, looked right the hell through her without speaking for what was perhaps all of eternity. Quinn felt like throwing up.

"Start with a shower. I left a robe and some towels. Use whatever you like and I'll have one of the boys leave clothes for you in our room." Big doe eyes widened all the more as what she just said dawned on her.

Quinn was shocked, too. Shocked but elated, even if the words weren't intentional, which she was pretty sure was the case.

"My room—the room. Leave clothes in _the_ room."

Watching Rachel backtrack had always been amusing to the blonde and forever made her grin. Just like now. The brunette stammered on and on, but it needed to stop.

"Okay. The room. The one with the big bed and the door and the windows?" Quinn never could resist teasing Rachel, even just a little bit.

"Yes! That one. With the ceiling and the closet."

Rachel was playing along? Really? Did that mean it was all right for Quinn to keep it up?

"So, the room that has a huge bathroom attached to it? One that would have been so much cooler with a Jacuzzi instead of that ancient clawfoot monstrosity?" That tub had been a bitch and a half to find during the renovations and cost more than Quinn would ever admit to paying for it.

Rachel's eyes narrowed at her, lips pursing. "No, the bedroom that has the huge bathroom with the state of the art, four showerheaded, ridiculously spacious stone-walled shower that _somebody_ just had to have because she can't appreciate the nostalgia of solitary soaks in a bubble bath the way the way women of the last century dreamed of and the good Lord intended."

"Ohhhh, that one." Quinn laughed, the pain in her cheek and abs barely noticeable. Her smile was real and maybe just a little bit flirty. The dynamic between her and Rachel had always been spirited and passionate, it just depended on their moods whether that passion was negative or positive. Right now? Positive.

The diva rolled her eyes, turning in the direction of the doctor's office-cum-photography set at the end of the hall. "Uh-hmm. You know, I can't recall any complaining from you whenever you actually did use that tub."

"Maybe because I was never in it alone?" Oh, not smart. Too far, Quinn. Too far. She steadied for the fallout.

Lines were blurring all over their relationship battleground, but Rachel spared a parting glace over her shoulder. "Exactly because." A sly grin later, she was closing the door to the study and that subtle sway of her hips was so _not_ an illusion.

Her mouth fell open, then curved into a smile. She flirted with Rachel. Rachel flirted back. They'd flirted and the world didn't explode. They didn't kill each other. They didn't fight. Quinn headed to "the room" and straight for the en suite's shower, putting away the medi-kit and ditching Santana's clothes in the hamper. Soon her own clothing met the same fate and she was under scalding pressurized spray. From four showerheads, yes. As the water turned her skin pink, she wondered how much further she could push the envelope or if she shouldn't risk tipping the scales of the current status quo of the household. Quinn smirked. She'd just got a taste of the old Rachel, the Rachel when they were happy, _her_ Rachel. And hell if she was going to give that up yet.


	19. The Love You Save

Thank you all so much for the reviews and awesome support. You really are the best!

Disclaimers: Glee? Not mine.

* * *

Everything was ready.

Mostly.

The kids were clean and dressed—she owed Joshua extra hologame time for giving Ava a bath—and the rest of the _Vanity Fair_ photo team was nearly finished transforming the house's quiet study into a professional-looking studio set. A pristine white backdrop blocked just enough of the Jordy blue wall to hide it from any shot. It was the standard three by six meters in size, but without the drape stand extended to its full height, thus allowing the muslin fabric to roll into the foreground like a ceremonial carpet. This floor of the Brownstone, pompously called the parlor level, had ceilings eleven feet high, exactly like the ground floor, otherwise known as the garden level. The row-house was a prototypical example of Victorian architecture. Specifically, the Italianate style that became so popular during the mid to late 19th century. So, there were tall ceilings, and tall walls, and tall windows. Tall windows usually meant lots of light. The problem was that the sky was still overcast so there was no point angling the photoset to catch any natural sun.

Yet, the study was bright, bright and dazzling from the many microbeam lights strewn about. Square shades, octagon shades, umbrella shades—some lamps looked to be old halogen ones known for their continuous but cool burn, never overheating models on even the longest days. Were they expecting this to take forever? Sweet Sondheim, it'd better not. She already wanted a nap.

The conversation between Santana and Quinn drained her. Listening in had not been part of Rachel's plan. The plan was finishing her preparations for the photo shoot and giving those two time to cool down before bringing clothes for Tana. At first she didn't know how to interrupt the heart-to-heart so she'd simply paused. But then Quinn started talking, naming things Rachel forgot she did. Things she forgot Quinn did. And Santana goaded the blonde into it after seeing Rachel in the door. It wasn't fair to either of them, but, admittedly, it'd been beneficial. Stupid Lopez for being so crafty. However, she felt guilty for overhearing things that clearly weren't meant for her ears. But it was nice. She couldn't lie about that. It felt good and warmed her in ways she wasn't ready for. The low hum of Quinn's voice always had that effect on her. She could be reading the dictionary and Rachel would still swoon. Just remembering it made her shiver. Ugh. Stupid Fabray, too.

Stupid Fabray still wasn't here yet. Rachel considered going to get her but hurriedly brushed away that idea. Quinn might not be dressed yet and she was not about to risk that scenario. The morning had been playing out like a bad TV show as it was. Moreover, she enjoyed showers so hot that the bathroom was a sauna afterward, and the actress could not afford the damage the humidity would do to her hair. If the water wasn't boiling and peeling off her skin, the doctor got cold. That's why Rachel always claimed the bathroom first. Even on the days Quinn used to join her, the temperature stayed exactly as the diva set it, because she refused suffer blisters in the name of cleanliness. She did, however, make sure to keep her wife warm enough.

Another light clicked on, aimed directly on the kids who were gathered on the whitescreen. From her half-perch on the wide desk across the room, she couldn't see the more intricate details of their outfits, but the colors were very monochromatic. Joshua looked to be in a button down with a black pull-over sweater and dark jeans that seemed to shimmer when he moved. Not that he was moving much. Well, his legs weren't. The young man was lying flat on the cloth covered floor, his arms extending their full length upward before lowering down to his chest then back up again. Bench-pressing, basically. His _pre_ pre-season training started this week and would continue for the next six, then came the regular pre-season training, then practices and concurrent training to keep him sharp during game season, then the post-season fitness maintenance. So it was now time for bench-pressing very light weights and working his way up. It was what he was bench-pressing that caught the mother's attention. She sighed.

Ava.

He was lifting and lowering his 35-inches-tall, 41 pound sister—who was doing a very good job of keeping her body straight and still, by the looks of it—holding her by the waist as she extended her arms like wings. Bench-pressing. Powerlifting a medicine ball. Whatever. The point was not that he was getting in a workout by using his little sister as gym equipment (they'd done this before), the point was that Rachel didn't like the way his forearms flexed with each lift. With his sleeves rolled up, it was easy even at this distance to see the bunching cords of muscle in his arms and the strength they held. She was grateful the rest of Joshua was covered, though. Otherwise the protective mother was going to have a tête-à-tête with Laura, the make-up artist, and Billy, the photography assistant who was having trouble preparing the cameras because he couldn't take his eyes off her son.

Yes, Joshua was good looking. He was half Quinn, after all. But he was sixteen and still her baby boy, damn it. So what if the sight of him playing with his little sister was too charming for words? Those two tramps needed to keep their eyes to themselves else face the wrath of Rachel Berry. It'd be a friendly little chat that wouldn't be friendly at all.

Ava giggled maniacally, distracting Rachel with her cuteness. Easily amused, that one. But what kid didn't like to fly? She wore a miniature version of the actress's dress, having a longer hemline and a full bodice with short sleeves. It fittingly reminded Rachel of Wendy's nightgown in Disney's animated _Peter Pan_. Only white. And not a nightgown. Because little girls did not sleep in $200 pajamas. Rachel's didn't, at any rate.

A gruff cough brought her attention to Daniel who sat next to his siblings. There wasn't much of a distance from them, but enough of one so they wouldn't accidentally touch. His head was down and he bent forward, intensely focused on whatever contraption lay in his lap. Rachel narrowed her eyes, trying to see just what it was. It was blending in with his dark charcoal trousers that didn't look quite long enough for his legs. Did Geoffrey think she was joking when she sent over the kids' measurements? The large boy turned the apparatus over in his hands, fiddling away with its boxy shape. There was a click and a flash, then the sound of plastics separating.

Worried eyes darted around the room in search of the photographer, Andrew. Missing. Splendid. Did no one else notice Daniel had a camera? Was dear Billy so distracted by her older son that he didn't see her younger one picking up a camera off the table and wandering back to sit, in plain view, and play with it? Her son was fascinated by puzzles and machines, and she knew he'd never seen a camera like that before. _Rachel_ had never seen a camera like that before. There was another flash then the clicking of plastic and metal scraping together. Daniel managed to open the contraption wholly. She was too stunned to stop him.

"What's he doing?"

Rachel jumped, her hand flying to her chest as she spun around. Of course Quinn would take this moment to sneak up on her. "Thank you, doctor, for the check-up. As you can see my reflexes are just fine and I'm sure my heart will stop racing momentarily." Sarcasm was not her strongest suit growing up, but she'd learned from the best over the years.

"I still make your heart race?" Quinn's tone was lower than what was overheard in the bathroom, which was a normal occurrence whenever she tried to be quiet, as though her voice dropped an octave just because it could.

Rachel refused to like it. No, and she did _not_ like the mix of teasing and apprehensive optimism in those hazel eyes, either. Nor did she like the fact that Quinn diverted her concentration from Daniel. "Oh shut up, Fabray." She tried to sound annoyed, really she did. The flirtatious lilt infiltrated her voice through no fault of her own.

The diva could tell she was about to be corrected and reminded that "Fabray" hadn't been Quinn's legal last name since they'd agreed upon a sperm donor. That'd been the whole point of hyphenating: so that any children would have both of their names, so they'd be a family. However, Rachel couldn't handle the weight of what that name meant. Not right now. Right now something more important required her attention.

"Is… Danny taking apart a camera?"

Denial was one of Rachel's most employed weapons. "He can't be, right?" Who was she trying to convince? "He's putting it together, I'm sure." Every cell in her body knew that was a lie, a silly false hope. "Assembling it."

"No," Quinn said, her eyes remaining on Daniel. "That's definitely a _dis_assembly. Rachel, he's taking it apart."

She surveyed the room. Joshua lifting "weights"? Check. The "weight" in mirthful hysterics? Check. Daniel pulling film out of the back of a camera? Chec—_film_?

Oh no.

"Quiinnn…?"

Neither mother could remove her horrified gaze from the boy examining the piece of equipment in his hands. Or the flimsy sheets of brown plastic being discarded around him. Now, the actress's knowledge of photography was limited and gleaned via being merely the subject and model, so it was entirely plausible that she was wrongfully presuming the gadget's age. "How old is that camera, do you think?"

"Uhh, well, at least as old as we are." Then the blonde's voice quavered, "I'm pretty sure it's older, though."

"How much older?" She didn't really want to know, but she couldn't _not_ ask.

"Ball park?"

Ugh. Quinn always "ball parked" timelines. Was it too much to ask that she be specific? "Yes, fine. Ball park."

"Five years?" Quinn sounded sorry for saying so, then squinted at the sight and made everything worse. "Maybe ten. It has one of those film advance lever thingies. I'm not sure if they still made those when we were young because digital was taking over."

One would think the few art classes Quinn took at Yale would have explored photography more, but apparently that wasn't a lesson covered by introductory curriculum. Yet the fact remained: Daniel was wrecking a camera that was forty to fifty years old. Rachel's face dropped to her hands, muffling her next word. "Sonofabitch."

The blonde laughed. Laughed! Did she have any idea how much it was going to cost to replace that? For Fosse's sake, what if it _couldn't _be? What if that ancient contraption was the very definition of irreplaceable?

"I can't—he just—oh God the cost! How am I going to pay for that?" How could she not have stopped him?

Warmth settled on her back. The heat of Quinn's hand went right through the material of Rachel's dress and burned her skin. Touching Quinn should not evoke this kind of response. But _Quinn_ was touching _her_. For the first time since the fight in the kitchen, the doctor was the one initiating contact. Rachel's body warmed in other places, places unmentionable. Stupid Fabray.

"We, Rach. We will pay for it. He is our son after all."

Small circles rubbed over the small of her back and more heat flared throughout the singer. Now was so not the time for this.

"Besides," Quinn continued, pulling away and completely missing Rachel's mournful whimper. Hopefully. "It's not like we can't afford it."

She froze. She hated when Quinn talked about money. Rachel had resigned herself to the reality that she made money, a lot of money, at her job. Had resigned to the fact that her career had little to do with truly being appreciated and loved for her talent, but paid for it because it was easy entertainment. Not because she touched people. Not because she brought them along on a lyrical and emotional journey the way she used to on stage. Her dream had deviated off path, and being paid for "phone in" performances cheapened it all the more. However, the money to replace this camera, or have a new one custom built, did exist. But it wasn't necessarily liquid and sitting in a bank account. That's what Quinn's salary and lecture fees were for. Rachel's paychecks came from loan-out companies and cycled into investments for tax purposes while Quinn's came from universities, grants, and pharmaceutical manufacturers paying for patent-usage, almost all of it going directly into a joint account that paid daily expenses.

An account which Rachel had used for home and food expenditures, noticing each time that money continued coming into the account, but every penny withdrawn was what she herself took out. Quinn hadn't used it once during the last five months. The deposits were less than before the couple separated, so clearly the doctor was rightfully retaining some of her salary (which was proper and expected) but not a lot of it (which was _un_expected). Wherever and however the doctor was living was much different that the life she'd led here in Midtown, and it seemed she kept only what she needed, leaving the rest for Rachel and their children. She still questioned where Quinn was living. Tana never answered whenever she'd asked, changing the subject after telling her not to worry because there was no chance they'd run into one another.

"Oh Jesus," muttered Quinn, yanking Rachel from her internal discourse.

Where was her head today? She needed to focus if she was going to make it through this. "What?"

The taller woman inclined her head toward the three young persons on the other side of the room. Her lips twitched upward.

Rachel's did not.

Ava had gotten hold of the film. And was flailing it about like a champion ribbon dancer. Had her _tía_ taught her that? Possibly. Although surly, seventeen-year-old Santana Lopez proved surprisingly adept at such things during the glee club's holiday special for the public broadcast network their senior year. Who'd have guessed?

But Ava? She was dancing with strips of antique film, fluttering about her brothers' heads as Joshua covered his face and Daniel kept on deconstructing the camera piece by piece. Without looking away from it, he reached out and lifted Ava about the waist, moving her out of the path of the instrument's parts scattered in front of him. Maybe he knew he was protecting his sister's bare feet, maybe he just didn't want her in his way. Whatever the reason, it was kind of cute. So was the way Ava kept trying to climb the mountain of his back in order to give him a head band of static-y plastic.

Cold air replaced the heat at her side, and she vaguely heard rummaging behind her before the doctor returned with a raincoat slung over her arm and a phone in hand.

"Are you recording this?" she hissed. Rachel was incredulous. She huffed, mere seconds from stomping her foot. Quinn, however, laughed while their children behaved like brats. Adorable, well-meaning brats who were kind and sweet with an infectious joy and not really brats at all. She leaned over to see exactly what the blonde was recording. Because, obviously, Rachel was the most qualified to offer direction and critique for the short video. A soft chuckle rumbled in her ear and she pulled away, unaware she'd been so close to Quinn's chest. Oh. Goodness.

"Don't worry," said Quinn. "I'll send you a copy."

Rachel pursed her lips together, straightened, and flipped her long hair over her shoulder before crossing her arms and decidedly not looking at the woman next to her. "Good."

The video was shaky because Quinn wouldn't stop snickering. Only now it was at Rachel. A few still shots were snapped, then the raincoat was tossed back behind the desk and the _Morph_ phone was in Rachel's grip as the doctor walked toward the children. Ava jumped into her mommy's arms and decorated her chin and cheeks with a beard made of photographic film from the 20th Century.

The diva thought about recording that, too, but quickly changed her mind. Having no pockets, she tucked the phone into the bodice of her dress and joined her family playing (and dismantling other people's expensive property) on the set.

She wanted in on that.

Approaching Mr. Destructo, she removed the strand of film from his hair and debated smoothing down his curls. They were similar to his grandpa's but not as tight, and kinked, unlike Ava's. The girl had wavy hair that curled all over, and held the shape very well, just like Rachel's. And Little Miss refused any more than a trim the last time they went out for haircuts, meaning there was a torrent of swirls winding downward from the crown of her head. Joshua, on the other hand, missed out on that. Though dark and thick like his siblings', his hair fluffed like Quinn's did. He hated it and did whatever he could to keep it straight and smooth. Rachel once caught him using her flatiron. She deserved an Oscar for keeping herself together that day.

Instead of bothering with Daniel's curls, she kissed the top of his head. "_Boychickel_?"

He grunted in response, too focused for real words.

"Can that be put back together?"

"Yes." The persistent tinkering made Rachel nervous despite his reassurance.

"Will it work?" She really needed him to say yes.

"Theoretically."

Her shoulders drooped. Nope. Not the answer she was looking for. Okay then. "You need to apologize to Mr. Andrew, all right? That's his camera and you took it without asking. And probably broke it."

"It's not broken, it's just not together yet, geez."

His long suffering sigh was a spot-on imitation of hers. He scratched his ear and got back to work. Rachel exhaled slowly then wandered past him, stringing the film Ava adorned him with between her own fingers. Then she saw it.

Joshua was still on the floor, leaning back on his hands with his legs stretched out before him. He poked Daniel with his foot, and Rachel groaned. Yes, the eldest Fabray-Berry child was a sweet young man who usually possessed a maturity unexpected in people his age. But he was sixteen. And a teenager was still a teenager, and a big brother was still a big brother. Harassing his siblings was essentially an obligation.

Daniel didn't acknowledge the prodding the first few times, but it did eventually get to him. "Quit it."

"Quit what?" The older boy's feigned ignorance fell short and he nudged his brother again.

"That. Quit it."

Joshua looked like he had a terrible idea. He sat up and scooted as close to Daniel as he could without making contact. Index finger as the ultimate weapon of sibling annoyance, he declared war. Just by hovering.

"Don't." Daniel finally looked up from the camera, disgruntled.

This was not happening. Rachel gave warning. "Joshua…"

"What?" The teen was the picture of innocence. "I'm not touching him. Am I, Danny?"

His finger circled in front of Daniel's face, closing in then retreating. This game was never going to die. Children had been doing this for millennia, and her own were no exception. However, Daniel was practicing exemplary self-control. Rachel was proud of him, but idly wondered much longer it'd be until Joshua got decked in the face. No. No more fighting today. She'd had her fill of violence for the whole year.

"Not touching you, not touching you."

"Joshua, I request you terminate this behavior at once," she said. He got one nice admonition. If he didn't stop, all bets were off.

He ignored her, speaking only to his brother. "Not touching you, not touching you, not touc—ow!" The six-feet-tall, 180 pound young man was standing, shoulders up to his ears and legs wobbling.

"Well I'm touching _you_," Quinn interrupted.

The fact that she possessed the strength to hoist a fully grown human male right from the ground by nothing but his collar was impressive. The element of surprise certainly helped, too. Rachel's belly fluttered and she hid her grin behind her hand, wondering if the blonde could do that because of her history of cheerleading or her history of dating really dumb guys who were more than used to being dragged around once Quinn Fabray was done with them.

"Leave your bother alone, Josh." The taller woman sighed then released him, matronly fixing his shirt. "Remember what I said this morning?

Joshua frowned and grumbled some kind of answer. Rachel's ears perked. What was said this morning? What'd she miss? It didn't seem fair for her to be left out since this was _her_ photo shoot.

"Good." The blonde flicked their son's forehead. "Your Mama needs a Luke today. Don't be a Han."

The teen scowled but it gradually shifted into a grin. He flicked Quinn's head in retaliation. Rather, he tried. His mother wasn't to be underestimated: Quinn was quick. Mentally and physically, Fabray had always been fast.

"Leggo," he whined, stumbling back when Quinn relinquished her grasp on his wrist.

"Behave."

Resorting to the only act of defiance he had left, Joshua rolled his eyes and stalked off.

No, there'd be no hologaming for him for the rest of the week. None at all.

Ava popped out of nowhere, hugging Rachel from behind and digging her chin into the woman's hip. It dug deeper when she spoke. "Is it picture time yet?"

Rachel wormed the child around to look at her. "As soon as Mr. Andrew is ready, sweetpea."

"Whens him gonna be ready?"

She brushed her fingers through baby soft hair. "I don't know, honey. Soon, okay?"

Ava pouted and buried her face in Rachel's hip again, but from the front.

"How about you help your brother pick up the camera pieces? Then we'll be all set when Mr. Andrew is."

The dark head shot up and away from her, and Ava clambered under Daniel's arm and into his lap, leaning against his broad chest. He looked like a bear with a cub. Or like the bear _cave_ the cub was hiding in. There was no sign he even noticed the girl, though. He unconsciously adjusted his arms to accommodate his sister's presence and continued his task. Ava lifted a part from the floor. Daniel paused and looked at it.

"Put that back."

The tiny one shook her head. "Mama said you gotta picked up now."

Daniel turned and stared at Rachel who'd been watching the interaction. Her trademark annoyed face glared back at her. He was not happy. But Ava came to the rescue.

"Daaannnnyuuulll. You gots pick up or else we can't have picture time."

Rachel wasn't about to reprimand her daughter for whining. Not if it persuaded the irritated boy glowering at her to salvage whatever he could of that camera.

Daniel didn't say anything. He took the back plating from his sister's hands and exchanged it for the correct piece to begin reconstruction. Rachel breathed a little easier. She hated confrontation with him and was terrible at handling it.

"And the small princess soothed the fierce but misunderstood mountain beasty, resolving evermore to be friends and to help each other along for always."

Rachel angled toward the voice. Quinn was close. Near enough to whisper in her ear and stir excitement within her.

Their height difference was exaggerated now. Costuming had changed Quinn's shoes from sandals like Rachel's to wedges. They accentuated long legs covered by an A-line skirt with miniscule gray pinstripes. A snug black shirt hugged every curve, negating whatever modesty the wardrobe people might have envisioned preserving with that ivory cardigan. She was beautiful and lithe, the outfit elongating her body. Oddly, Rachel didn't feel short next to the blonde. She was instead warmed by it because if she turned just a little more and leaned back, she'd fit perfectly against Quinn's front. Her head would be precisely the right height to tuck under that square chin without either woman having to bend or stretch.

A tense form pressed into Rachel's back and she started. It wasn't Quinn who had moved, however. She had. Without meaning to, the brunette had done exactly what she'd been thinking. She tried to move, tried to ignore how good the taller woman felt, tried holding back the sigh as familiar hands came to rest on her hips.

The ordinarily self-assured doctor was the antithesis of confidence right now. She was hesitant and her grip was virtually nonexistent, as though she was on guard to pull back at any second.

The mere idea of that left Rachel empty.

Her own hands laid atop Quinn's, the contact firm as she guided them around to her waist. They settled on her stomach and Quinn was forced to shuffle closer until the women were leaning into each other. Back to front, all space between their bodies disappeared. Quinn, rigid and motionless, gulped. The sound was like a bomb detonating in the singer's ear. They were so close. Touching. Holding on the way they'd once promised to do forever.

Confusion swept through her. All logic told her to get away. Get distance. Maintain a clear head. But she couldn't. She physically could not leave—her body wouldn't allow it. Being in Quinn's arms gave her peace. Her mind swam with questions but her body…her body was okay. Calm for the first time in a long while.

"Rach?"

Her name, spoken in hoarse uncertainty, echoed in her mind. Other people had called her that all her life, but there was something special in the way Quinn said it. During their moments, their quiet suspensions from reality, her name was bestowed reverence. As though it was the only prayer Quinn had in a world where the doctor questioned the true existence of God whenever she returned from hospitals and trips to AIDS ravaged countries. A world where she tended the sick and dying, doing her utmost to save people then keep them alive and healthy as long as she could. A world where people took refuge in what Quinn could do for them…where Quinn found refuge in Rachel.

But Rachel had gotten angry. Angry that the doctor kept leaving, lecturing instead of healing. She was resentful that Dr. Fabray became more interested in petri dishes and praise from her peers than in her wife. It'd been easier to think the beautiful woman was cheating rather than believe she'd honestly fallen asleep next to a rack of test tubes at the lab. Because there were women out there who were prettier that Rachel; who were smarter; who were not as high maintenance and required less attention. Women who weren't needy and passive aggressive. Who weren't loud or opinionated or spoiled divas and didn't use step stools to climb on kitchen countertops while eight months pregnant and scare the life out of people all because a favorite mug was on the top shelf and some smart ass tween forgot to leave it on the bottom shelf as he'd been ordered to do since the beginning of the final trimester. Women like that.

Women Quinn could really love without complication.

Weary, Rachel's head dropped back against the shoulder behind her. She was just so tired. Of all of it.

"Rachel?"

Right, she hadn't answered yet.

"Hmmm?"

The body framing hers was stiff and awkward. She couldn't blame Quinn, though. Rachel had been giving mixed signals all morning because she was so confused herself.

"Is this…does this—"

"Shhh." Rachel's head rolled side to side until her forehead rested in the crook of a slender neck which smelled of coconut and vanilla. "It's now. Just for right now."

She fixed the blonde's arms tighter about her middle until fair skinned hands crossed all around her to meet the opposite elbow. Yet Quinn remained immobile.

"Can you handle that?" she asked. "I don't know if I'll want this in five minutes. But I know I want it right now."

The body cradling hers stayed taut for another moment or two. Then, little by little, melted into Rachel's. Strong arms then abruptly hugged her closer and the diva actually squeaked in surprise, sounding into her wife's neck. Her form shook along with Quinn's, the doctor laughing quietly.

"Ugh," she gently smacked at one of the arms around her. "I don't think I like you right now." Her voice was pouty but light. She was embarrassed for squeaking in front a bunch of strangers like a rubber bath toy, but she wasn't really upset.

"Do you want me to let go?"

Her hands constricted over Quinn's, weaving their fingers together like they'd been this morning when the two of them awakened. "No. Not yet." Not ever.

So her wife held on, cheek resting against Rachel's temple. At some point the women began swaying. It wasn't much, hardly noticeable, but there. And Quinn was humming. Humming so faintly it took a few bars for Rachel to identify it.

Motown. Always Motown. The white girl from the Ohio suburbs loved the music of the very heartbeat of Detroit—a city each of them had been to many times for work but only once together, visiting as a family.

Rachel loved that trip. She'd watched Joshua get his mind blown at Hockeytown then flip out when they went to a game at the Joe Louis Arena. She'd gotten to see Daniel venture out of his shell at the Greenfield Village exhibit of Thomas Edison's actual Menlo Park laboratory. And she'd listened to him, all by himself and without stuttering, ask the docent how a building could be moved from one place to another. Then she'd hidden silent tears upon seeing Quinn's repressed yearning in the DIA but rejoiced in her childlike excitement at the Motown Historical Museum.

She sighed, listening to the sultry hum of her wife. Her wife, who'd convinced a local colleague and friend to stay with the boys while she took Rachel out for a romantic dinner and a performance at the legendary Fox Theatre, followed by a short night of dancing and a long night of lovemaking in the privacy of their half of the hotel suite while their sons slumbered on in the other. Rachel was barely three months along with Ava at the time. After trying and failing for what felt like forever, a pregnancy finally rooted and the family celebrated with a vacation to a city with a rich culture most people forgot was there.

The closing bridge and re-intro of the impromptu song came around, and the brunette was powerless against it. All humming quieted once the singer whispered the lyrics, intentionally skipping the first bit out of fear rejection. "…_and all I want you to do is just hold me, hold me_—"

"Hold you?" Quinn cut in semi-playfully, disregarding the beat altogether and lightening the moment for Rachel's sake.

She couldn't even be mad at her for messing up the rhythm. She just nodded and murmured, "Hold me."

It wasn't a song anymore; however, Quinn took her cue from the next lyric, her arms squeezing Rachel. Tighter.

Yeah, Quinn really did have a hold on her. Rachel wondered if her hold over Quinn was just as strong, if it was even still there.

She hoped so.


	20. Baby Hold On

Wow! Almost sixty reviews - you are all amazing! Thank you so much and I'm geeked to know you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it :)

Disclaimers: Glee and its characters do not belong to me. The other stuff does, though.

* * *

Her humming was long gone. The song was finished, but their moment wasn't over. One side of her face buried in silky hair, and, with her eyes closed, Quinn focused her senses. Her ears homed in on the steady in and out of Rachel's breathing. It was deep and slow, purposeful. Then there was the fast patter of Ava's bare feet running on the hardwood flooring fading in the direction of the doorway with Daniel's heavy footfalls following close behind. Strangers moved about the room, doing whatever it was they were getting paid to do and keeping their distance. Whether it was because they were in the presence of the famous Rachel Berry and too intimidated to approach her, or because the couple was so invested in their own world, Quinn couldn't say. However, she could promise that whoever interrupted them would be getting an earful—and not a pleasant one like what she was hearing now. The music from a second ago was replaced by the rhythm of Rachel's heart. And it was the most beautiful sound in the world right now. The familiar _thump thump thump_ was regular, but fast. Outwardly, Rachel was the embodiment of tranquility, but her pulse was too rapid for a person at rest. Quinn smiled into chestnut tresses, the thudding in her own chest picking up speed; she really did still make Rachel's heart race.

The heat from Rachel seeped into her. It was like standing before a campfire in the way it radiated throughout her whole front, from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. And her skin…the brown skin Quinn had charted with her hands and mouth thousands of times was just as soft as she remembered. Many nights and many days had she prostrated herself in devotion of this body. She'd traced its curves with her fingertips and held it securely in her arms, hands fastening Rachel to herself, becoming the mainstay around which her wife anchored lest they both be tossed by the rolling waves of hips against hips. And when thunderclouds gathered behind black eyes, it was Quinn who held on until Rachel made the sky burst open and lightning spike down her spine, each of them caught in a downpour of fervency that always steered them back into another storm.

She knew the flavor of that body just as well as she knew every scar and freckle ornamenting it, too. And although Quinn wanted, very much wanted, to drag her lips over the exposed skin so near her mouth, she knew she couldn't. That wasn't allowed. Nor could her tongue flicker and lick from the rounded contour of Rachel's shoulder while journeying to her neck. No. Quinn was still so far forbidden that ecstasy. Therefore there'd be no kisses along that smooth expanse of skin. But if it ever happened, she'd savor it—her palate had twenty-five years of training and refinement. She knew exactly where to go, too. Her sampling wouldn't end at Rachel's ear, like it might with most people, Quinn being one of them. The blonde paused. Her ears blazed just from _thinking_ about the things Rachel could do—and had done—to them. Sometimes just by breathing.

A shiver rippled through her. Rachel must have mistaken it for cold because she hugged Quinn closer. In truth, the doctor was burning up. Her mouth abandoned its station near that smooth cheek, gravitating backward and brushing over the delicate top of her wife's ear. Now it was Rachel who shivered. But Quinn kept on. She had a clear-cut destination and stayed the course. There was a certain place Quinn knew, and loved. She trailed the tip of her nose along Rachel's hairline, following it until reaching the nape of the brunette's neck, then dipped her head and glided down the shorter woman's spine. The body against hers stiffened and the doctor paused, doubting herself. This was too far, wasn't it? She should stop. Then that very same body ever so subtly slanted just enough and Quinn met her target. Right there—the middle of Rachel's upper back, perfectly aligned with her spinal column and directly centered between her shoulder blades. Bronze skin rippled with goosebumps.

Her lips now hovered, poised to lay kisses over and over again to the place that made Rachel's knees weak and will power dissolve. But the hands covering hers turned severe and the brunette's form was fraught with tension. She was right: Rachel wasn't ready for this. And doing it would push her away when Quinn needed them to stay close in every way, she couldn't chance putting any more distance between them than there already was. The blonde dropped her head in defeat, her forehead resting on bare skin. Deep breaths. Deep, calming breaths and she'd be okay.

Wrong.

Olfaction was the most powerful of all the senses. Like taste, it was a chemical sense. But unlike taste, sight, touch or hearing, smell wasn't interpreted via neuron signals moving along the nervous system before reaching the brain. No, it was directly connected, a cranial nerve. It didn't lie, either. Not everyone tasted the same flavors; optical illusions were _designed_ to fool the eye; touching something so incredibly hot could be wrongly interpreted as cold or vice versa; and misheard lyrics or phantom noises were perfect fodder for friendly teasing or fearful nights home alone, respectively. But smell was different. Nearly everyone could recognize coffee or crayons if they knew them, while odors like rain or fire were biologically hardwired across humanity. And it was arguably the first sense utilized at birth, certainly the most advanced. It was how newborns initially recognized their mothers. Furthermore, it was how any mother could, blindfolded, pick her own offspring out of a group of children. And it triggered the most vivid memories of people's lives.

_Her_ life smelled like family. Quinn wanted to groan at how sappy she was being but it was true. Her life smelled of Ava, Joshua, and Daniel. Rich and tender, soft but with the strength of their heartbeats. Life smelled like no-tears watermelon shampoo, sweaty hockey gear, and the aged plastic nostalgia of handed-down Leggo pieces.

But the most powerful aroma in her universe was her wife. And if Quinn's very soul had a scent, then Rachel carried it.

The dark vanilla was woodsy and robust, yet came off only in subtle wafts—just enough to entice but never overwhelm. There was a taste of bourbon to it whenever she breathed the correct way. When she let her mouth open as she inhaled through her nose, it prickled her tongue in a pleasant burn. Yes, she tasted Rachel's scent as easily as she could smell it, smiling as it conjured pictures of her wife in her mind. Some real, some imagined. The memory of a young brunette wearing a white knitted hat over her long hair and a bright red woolen coat spinning with her arms wide and a smile on her face…that was real. It was a weekend visit during her freshman year at Yale and they took a stroll through Central Park West. It was fall, their fledgling relationship had had some ups and downs, some offs and ons, but they were good. Then and there, they were perfect.

Rachel had held her hand as they moseyed down the Naturalist's Walk in the park. A winding footpath scattered with trees and charming vintage benches led them to an open meadow. Although popular for picnics and many a romantic rendezvous, it was nearly empty that day. Cold and windy, the autumn air was unkind but the effervescent actress wasn't about to let something like that stop her from spending time with Quinn in a place she thought Quinn would love. And loved it she had. She'd loved listening to Rachel laugh that bombastic laugh and seeing her dance in a rain of colorful leaves. It was the first time it really hit Quinn that _this_ was Rachel's home. Not Lima. New York was where she was meant to be since day one. No, before that. Rachel Berry was _predestined_ to live in this city—to take it, own it, never give it up and never apologize for doing so. It was then Quinn knew that no matter what she did with her life, art, science, the possibility of medicine or whatever, it'd be here in Manhattan. Here with Rachel. New York was Rachel's home. And Quinn's home was Rachel.

That beloved fragrance contained another type of so-called memory. It was all in Quinn's head, but it always amused her, enthralled her. There existed a dark side to Rachel just as there did that innocent girl in Central Park. The side that would do anything for a win, be it her own or a friend's. Misleading a rival, stuffing ballot boxes, belittling others (albeit mostly unknowingly) while boasting about her own talent. She was possessive, ambitious to a fault, and more tenacious than a mongoose against a snake. Quinn watched her grow and come into her own in New York's competitive theatre world and Rachel turned cut-throat when necessary. On and off stage, she had played both the damsel in distress and femme fatale to manipulate people and get her way multiple times throughout her career. Because when Rachel Berry wanted something, she went for it. And nine times out of ten, she got it.

It was that side, that shadow-self, that tantalized Quinn. She'd been a pink haired, wannabe punk once and understood the draw to be a bad girl just as much as she understood the desire to _be with_ the bad girl. In retrospect, the weird attraction both she and Rachel had to Puckerman in their teen years made some sense: both wanted a chance to misbehave. Ironic how it was being with one another that finally broke all the rules holding each of them back. There was a facet of Rachel, a semi-sinister side that excited Quinn. Frankly, it turned her on. Seeing Rachel be wicked—not necessarily on stage, although that Tony for Best Leading Actress in a Musical was unconditionally earned—thrilled her. And it was that image (not the green skin) that launched Quinn's mind into orbit.

Rachel's darker identity always manifested in Quinn's mind the same way: a woman with sable hair and midnight eyes peaking over the turned up collar of a trench coat and walking down rain-dampened sidewalks while steam rose from the streets into the night. The complex vanilla build of spice and brown sugar with the trace of tobacco made Quinn picture a mysterious woman with a vulnerable past searching for just the right hero to discover her secrets and stick around anyway.

She'd wanted to be that stealthy investigator, to sleuth about and sift through the intricate, multifarious world of Rachel Berry. Now she had to be. She needed—needed with every fiber of her that knew how to wish—to be that hero, flawed though she was. Not for her sake. Not even for Rachel's. But for theirs.

Her lips parted, breathing in her wife completely. It was the bouquet of an autumn's dusk in Central Park, of laughter and love, of vanilla and woodsmoke, of sharp film noir dames with full lips and "come hither" eyes. Sophisticated and sexy. All mixed with the natural perfume of the fiery skin against her own and the sound of Rachel's heartbeat, it intoxicated Quinn better than any bourbon could ever hope to. Her senses combined and Quinn's vision returned. She saw it all. Saw her wife. Saw the life they deserved versus the one they had. Saw what went wrong. Saw how to make it right. Saw—

_Slam!_

The reverberation of the office door banging shut rattled Quinn's teeth, rupturing the repose of the moment and sending her train of thought careening off track. Rachel jolted and Quinn tightened her arms all the more. No. No getting away again. Internally, she snarled at the disruption. The responsible party, be it her own child or one of these "guests" from the magazine, was about to meet their maker. Hazel eyes snapped in the direction of the noise…and were met with the sight of one supremely pissed off woman.

What the hell did San do now?

She groaned, her grumble muffling in Rachel's neck. Her wife, ever the composed superstar on display, stood a bit straighter. Not too much straighter, however, because the blonde refused to loosen her hold. Rachel surrendered and instead turned, her dainty right hand crossing over to grip the doctor's bicep and keeping full body contact as she leaned sideways into the blonde's taller form. Her left hand tarried, then moved as far as to link fingers with Quinn's right one as together they rested on Rachel's waist. As long as their embrace remained unbroken, Quinn didn't care how they were positioned.

Marching directly to them but stopping at the edge of the set's dropscreen was a woman with fire behind her eyes. Truthfully, the tightening of her grip on Rachel was now out of protection. She wasn't sure for which of them—her or her wife—but if this chick was going to kill them, then at least they'd die together.

Yes, after so long in a relationship with Rachel Berry, the diva's dramatics had worn off on Quinn. And no one could judge her for that.

"That woman," Clarissa sucked in a great breath and started again. "That woman, if she so indeed may be called, is the most insufferable creature I have ever met. Her manner is vile; her words are vulgar; her entire disposition is needlessly confrontational and sour; and her satisfied sense of self and her ego-maniacal narcissism are horrendous! She is absolutely abhorrent!"

Now, whoever said younger generations weren't as aggressively articulate as those prior? Oh. Right. Rachel said that.

Their swaying stopped the second the door swung shut and the Fabray-Berry women gaped at the hair stylist they'd (Rachel) gently guided (shoved) in to taking care of the wounded lawyer.

Clarissa was _livid_. Her chest heaved and her cheeks flushed from fury. Clenched fists sat on ample hips as she stared down the couple, daring them to either explain themselves or defend their friend.

Quinn waited for steam to blast from her ears, cracking a smile at the cartoonish thought. It looked really funny in her head.

Violet eyes narrowed to thin slits. "With all due respect, Dr. Fabray, I fail to find any humor whatsoever in this situation."

She sounded like Rachel. Huh. The blonde clucked her tongue, wondering if someone who seemed so similar to her wife would be a good idea for their best friend. The two would be compatible up to a point, she mused. And clearly there was passion between them because people didn't get that pissed off at someone unless there was something more lying underneath. Quinn wouldn't have called it, but Rachel saw something in the stranger that made her think she'd be right for Santana. No, she wouldn't have pictured the two black haired women together for anything more than a one-off, but Rachel _never_ pushed San toward a conquest; she was adamant her Tana needed something serious. The doctor had to agree. It'd been too long that Santana Lopez had been alone.

A whoosh of air caught her attention but only momentarily. Rachel's left thumb was drawing circles on Quinn's right palm, their fingers still laced and their hands still residing on the curve of her wife's hip. Quinn hadn't realized how much more the brunette wrapped herself up in her.

She also didn't realize Rachel was talking.

"…putting you in such unpleasant circumstances and for any inconvenience it has caused. You'll receive personal compensation for your much appreciated efforts and the help you provided if you'd so be amenable."

Clarissa rubbed her brow and tilted her head back. She blew out a tired breath. "Thank you for the offer, Ms. Berry, but that isn't nor shall it be necessary." Clarissa could be Rachel's sister. Not in looks or mannerisms, but definitely in speech. They were like syntax twins. Which Quinn found intriguing because part of the foundation of Rachel and Santana's friendship was all the verbal sparring. And if Clarissa had even a tenth of Rachel's brass and sass against Tana the Terrible, and it seemed that was certainly the case, then the younger woman was already on equal footing with the lawyer.

"Dr. Fabray?"

A squeeze to her upper arm punctuated the summons. She'd just been told something, hadn't she? That irritated young face was expectant, but Quinn didn't have a clue what she missed. "I'm sorry?"

"Hair, Quinn," Rachel prompted. "You need to get your hair done."

Separating from Rachel hurt physically and emotionally. Arms unwound as reluctant bodies parted. Quinn was reluctant, at least. She stole another breath of the darkly scented aura surrounding the brunette and held back a whimper as they pulled away. Rachel stepped forward.

"I'll go get the kids. They're probably upstairs." Her voice was quiet but Quinn heard sorrow in it. It remained unknown why the sorrow was there, however. Her expression was unreadable. The way she was biting her lower lip made Quinn want to kiss her. If only Rachel wanted it, too.

Brown eyes avoided confused hazels, but Quinn didn't feel rejected. It was just Rachel's way of collecting herself, gathering her mind in this chaotic situation life threw them. Fate had a way of doing that to them. All their lives they couldn't get away from each other. Not for long, anyway. Strange how entwined their lives were, long before their first kiss.

A poke to her ribs got her moving. "Ow! I'm going, I'm going." She rubbed her side, pouting at her wife. "Meanie."

Rachel adopted the perfect "who me?" expression on her way out the door to retrieve their children. The discomfort in Quinn's ribcage was replaced by a small buoyancy that maybe they weren't as far apart as one would expect.

Exaggerated throat-clearing came from the provisional make-up station. Okay, _that_ noise would make San insane. Heaven could only hope Clarissa wasn't a foot-tapper as well. The blonde followed the sound and sat in a folding canvas chair and her guides of celebrity beauty set to work.

A redheaded Amazon with a chest that would topple any other woman leaned in about two inches from her face. "I'm Laura. And you, Dr. Fabray, happen to have astonishingly good looks. You won't need much." She tutted and grabbed the most basic of supplies. "Between you and Ms. Berry, I have no idea why I was hired for today."

Quinn cocked an eyebrow.

"Ooh, I like that. Do that in the photos and watch your own cult of followers emerge."

Of its own accord and her surprise at how candid this woman was, the golden brow arched higher.

"Yeah. You two are going to convert a whole new generation. Even I'm feeling a little tingly."

The doctor blushed hotly before her high school self asserted itself. "You're pretty bold, Laura."

The tall woman shrugged, dabbing the lightest coat of concealer to pink cheeks then moving on to whatever eye make-up Quinn needed. "Saves me time."

She and Santana would either be the best of friends or mortal enemies. Either way, their meeting would be a sight to behold. The blonde got a sudden craving for popcorn. Before she could offer any kind of response, Laura's sky blue eyes scrutinized every centimeter of her face.

"I'm done. See you for round two." She strutted off in the direction of the older costumer by the clothing racks. The two women sighed at each other in semi-contempt. Then Laura pulled a silver cigarette case from her purse and the two donned their coats, leaving without a word.

Well that seemed rather unprofessional.

Long fingers played at the ends of her hair. "They'll be back in time. The DS down the street isn't too far." Clarissa's voice softened considerably since her abrupt entrance and interruption.

She was right, too. The nearest Designated Smoking station was on the opposite end of East 49th Street. No, it had nothing to do with the purchase of this house and Rachel hated it, but Quinn found its location serendipitous on the nights she needed to walk off her anger before a restless sleep in this very office. Sometimes, she'd just needed a damn cigarette to deal. Filthy habit, and she felt guilty every single time, bit the station was a haven at times, especially since New York banned public smoking about ten years ago. Some DS stations were bars or restaurants with special licensing. The particular one by the Fabray-Berry home was a coffee shop. All authorized smokerhuts had super powerful air filtration systems and sold super expensive packs of cigarettes, but Smokey Joe's Café on the corner was nice enough to dole out a free small java with every fifth purchase of the deadly little cancer sticks. Yeah, green though the country had become, the first international currency employed by the infant nation of the United States of America was still in use: Big Tobacco would never die, no matter how many people it killed. But, the First Amendment guaranteed the pursuit of happiness. And lots of people would rather be happy for a few minutes a few times a day than think about a cancerous consequence. After a bad fight with her wife, Quinn was one of their numbers.

"You look like you want to join them."

She gave a self-deprecating smile. "Some bad habits don't go away completely. I'm good though." It'd been months since she'd gone to any DS station. Her first night living in the West Village she'd holed up in a 24-hour bar, nursing a whiskey sour and doing her best impersonation of a chimney. She'd smoked herself sick. It'd just been good to feel _something_.

"I know how that goes." The standard hairdresser/client therapy began and Clarissa worked quickly. Quinn found something about the woman trustworthy, however, so she continued freely.

"Former smoker?"

The stylist nodded. "Until recently. Cold turkey sucks."

Quinn had to agree. However, her own refusal of the free nicotine patches handed out at clinics was due to pride. Clarissa didn't strike her as the proud type. Self-respecting and confident, but not sinfully arrogant like the good Dr. Fabray. Like she said, some ways of life were too ingrained to be escaped.

Companionable silence blanketed them while Quinn watched the young woman in the mirror simply for the distraction. She was good. Better than the stylist at the salon who'd cut Quinn's hair two weeks ago. Her movements were fluid and practiced, and she was making record time. Yeah, this woman knew what she was doing.

Clarissa really was pretty. Her hourglass figure wasn't Santana's normal type, but the doctor knew it'd definitely be appreciated for as long as either brunette retained consciousness in bed. Jeans that were maybe just a bit too tight clung to full thighs, round hips, and an ass San would literally sink her teeth into. Quinn chuckled. Still, there was something familiar about this woman and she couldn't place it. Clarissa leaned past her, reaching for a bobby pin. Generous breasts peaked from the V of her t-shirt and the loose material wasn't so loose anymore as she stretched. Then it hit her.

"You know, before I went into virology I was a pediatrician."

The dark haired woman spoke around the few bobby pins now clenched between her teeth. "So says your Wikipedia page."

The blonde rolled her eyes. Really, everyone had one of those these days. Human vanity knew no bounds. "But it doesn't say I did a lengthy stint in obstetrics while in med school, does it?"

Shaking her head, Clarissa focused on her work.

The doctor pressed on. Quinn was known for being unrelenting until she got the information she wanted. She was also well aware that in order to get intelligence, she had to give some tidbits of her own. "Came in handy. Had to deliver more than a few babies during vaccination missions in Africa." A number of those trips called for a competent doctor when hospitals were miles away. Were it not for that, she'd just be another scientist doling out shots and living in a lab instead of a functional physician. Yet, admittedly, the lecture tours dulled her skills somewhat.

The hands in her hair hurried along. "Good you were there then."

The number of pregnancies among some villages was overwhelming at times. Every individual was examined to ascertain who was and was not healthy enough to receive the vaccine, of course, but over the years Quinn became extremely adept at visually distinguishing women who were carrying, even if it was early and they themselves were unaware. And as discovered from the actual exams, she was rarely mistaken. "Over the years I got pretty good at identifying pregnancy. One village midwife said I was almost as good as she was. I swear she could recognize a pregnant woman from over a click away."

Hard violet eyes found hers in the mirror. "So you're saying you can just spot it, huh?" Clarissa challenged.

"Weird talent, isn't it?" Quinn was not about to back down. Her years of experience and the years in age she had on this woman demanded she not. Plus, there was that whole pride aspect, too. Still, she allowed the woman an out. "Now you know something about me that can't be learned on Wikipedia."

She stood and checked her reflection on last time. This _Vanity Fair_ team was good; she hoped they were getting paid well. Quinn pivoted, sizing up the stylist and no longer seeing her as a potential lover for Santana. Her eyes dropped to Clarissa's stomach then climbed to that darkening gaze. No, this woman needed to stay far away from her friend. "How long has it been? Since you…_gave up smoking_, I mean."

Gratitude flashed across Clarissa's face; Quinn wasn't going to make her actually admit to anything. She knew all too well what it was like to be exposed before being ready. The doctor was slightly ashamed for forcing this conversation, and she didn't know why she had begun it in the first place, but it was out there.

"Almost ten weeks." The defiance in the brunette's tone was fading. "The result of a drunken one-night stand."

The older woman smiled sympathetically, fully understanding how alcohol impaired one's judgment. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Are you single or partnered?"

"Single. And _not_ looking." The cocky, snippy side of the young woman returned and Quinn's smile grew friendly. She liked this girl.

"In that case I am doubly sorry for roping you in to helping Satan. And," she slowed her words, wanting Clarissa to fully understand, "since being a single, twenty-eight-year-old in Manhattan who happens to be "quitting smoking" isn't easy, I'm also doubling whatever compensation Rachel offered as a thank you and you're accepting it. Whether you like it or not," she added before the young could object.

Clarissa's eyes glistened with tears neither of them wanted to fall. "Thank you, Dr. Fabray." She looked like she was about to hug Quinn.

She scoffed, needing to cast off the heavy mood. "At this point I say it's safe to call me Quinn. And remind me to give you my number before you leave. I know doctors whose specialty is with women who are _quitting smoking_ so—"

"I can't find Ava."

Quinn whirled around at the announcement. Rachel came up right behind her, slightly out of breath. "What do you mean you can't find Ava?"

"Oh, I mean she's on the roof dancing a jig for the Peruvian Consulate next door and sent me to come get you because she wants her mommy to see—I mean I can't find her, Quinn!" Rachel hissed through her teeth.

Sarcasm: really not Rachel's forte.

The blonde placed her hands on Rachel's arms, tactically maneuvering around the girlishly slapping hands trying to keep her away. "Okay, I'm sorry. You looked everywhere." She was very, very careful not to make that a question, but a statement.

"Of course I looked everywhere!"

"That's what I just said. Jesus." Quinn did not enjoy her wife's histrionics and was not in the mood to deal with a tantrum when her own panic was fighting to get out. But she had to keep a cool head otherwise the diva would lose it. And no matter what kind of nondisclosure contract these magazine people signed, a Rachel Berry freak-out was not something that could be kept secret and out of the tabloids. "I'm establishing facts. You looked everywhere and can't find her. I'm assuming the boys helped and also had no luck." She panned about, noticing a fretful Josh pacing by her desk and an ambivalent looking Daniel sitting in her chair and literally twiddling his thumbs.

"Correct."

They probably figured their sister wandered back here. Quinn closed her eyes and thought. Ava couldn't have left the house by herself and no chance was anyone taking her out of here without the guards on the stoop noticing. "Everyone who should be here is, right?"

Both mothers cast an eye over the room. Quinn barely noticed the return of the smokers before Rachel finished her own head count. "Yes. The employees are fully accounted for."

"Well, she has to be in the house, right?"

Rachel nodded, chewing her lower lip and glancing about.

"Did you check our room?" Quinn was too preoccupied to bother amending her terminology. She kept a calm façade, however, rationally considering where Ava might be as her wife silently confirmed their daughter was not in the master bedroom. The simplest explanation struck her. Duh.

"San. She's in San's room."

Brown eyes lightened with hope although their owner frowned. "I told her Tana's resting. She knows better than to disturb her."

"Has that ever stopped her? She's four, Rach." Quinn knew she won Rachel over to her way of thinking. She rubbed her hands up and down toned arms in comfort. "I'll get her."

"No need, Tubbers."

Moving slowly and wearing dark sunglasses, Santana made her way into the office with a limp body circumscribing her torso. The shock of Ava's white satin dress against San in tight black gym clothes was a striking contrast with their almost matching dark brown skin. Both mothers let out slow breaths and stepped to meet the pair halfway.

"Little _mamí_ crawled into bed to tell me a "feel better story". Ended up putting herself out." San rocked side-to-side, holding the girl lovingly and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Quinn could feel the ache rolling off of Rachel, desperate to take Ava in her arms. She felt her own longing, too. Logic didn't have a damn thing to do with dealing with the aftermath of a lost child. Be it in a grocery store for three seconds or one's home for three minutes or Heaven knows where for three hours or more, Quinn was certain the relief and happiness at finding said child was the same.

Ava drooled on her _tía's _shoulder. It was doubtful Santana even noticed. The lawyer looked like hell, as though she was barely able to hold her niece for much longer. Actually, Ava didn't look so good either. Her cheeks were pink and perspiration beaded on her brow and upper lip. She looked warm, but it could have been from the running about she'd been doing earlier. Which would also explain why the child was dozing off for the second time that day. Before the doctor could voice any concern, Ava whined, waking, and turned her face to nuzzle into San's neck.

"_¿Tía_?"

"_¿Ay? ¿Qué pasa, bebé?_"

"Want Mama."

Rachel was at their daughter's side, stroking her back and relieving Santana of the burden of the little girl's weight. Ava went from nuzzling her face in a thicket of ebony waves into a chestnut brown mane. "Mama's here, Sunshine."

She looked at Quinn, who honestly felt somewhat dejected that their daughter asked for Rachel but not for her. It made perfect sense, though: Rachel was the one who'd been here and Quinn hadn't. There was no room for her to have even the mildest of hurt feelings. Instead, it was more of a yearning to go back in time, to be needed again by her family and to fulfill that need in whatever way possible.

Her wife's eyes were soft, inviting. "Mommy's here, too."

Quinn could kiss her. Really.

"Oh. Good." The little girl's tired voice was so pathetic. "Is it picture time now?"

Hazel eyes broke from their coffee brown counterparts and scanned the room. The boys were being ushered to the white-screen while everyone else milled about, waiting for the family moment to finish. She stepped closer to her wife and daughter. "Yeah, Vee-Vee. It's picture time. Are you up for that?"

She sniffled and bobbed her head once. Her mama took that as her cue to carry the girl to the set, easing them both to sit on the floor with Ava cradled in Rachel's lap like an infant, holding her close and humming serenely.

The whole room quieted. Rachel hadn't performed live, released a single song, guest starred on a TV show, or headlined a summer rom-com blockbuster or a Broadway show in over five years. The _Vanity Fair_ crew became like statues as they witnessed something no one outside of the Fabray-Berry family had seen in half a decade: Rachel Berry was singing. To Quinn, the best part was that she was singing to their youngest child as the toddler climbed fully out of sleep. The second best part was that the superstar was utterly unaware of the attention.

Daniel and Josh circled her. The older boy remained standing behind and looking down at the "prima donna and child" tableau while the younger one lay down on his belly at his mama's side. He angled just so his head was near Rachel's knee, and he didn't shy away when she hesitantly reached out and toyed with the curls by his ear. Even when he fussed as a baby, all Rachel had to do was sing and Danny was hers.

"You are the sunshine of my life, that's why I'll always be around…" The brunette snuggled Ava close while petting Daniel, then glancing all the way up at Josh before gazing at Quinn from across the room and singing on.

She shook her head at the song choice, grinning. Apparently their Motown moment from earlier inspired Rachel.

"I feel like this is the beginning. Though I've loved you for a million years. And if I thought our love was ending, I'd find myself drowning in my tears."

No. If ever Rachel's tears proved enough to drown them, Quinn resolved to be their live preserver. To keep them and their love afloat like she should have done before. She shivered and closed the distance between her and her family in mere heartbeats, never taking her eyes off her wife. Though it was a short song, the blonde didn't wait for it to end. Instead she dropped to her knees and cupped her wife's face in her hands and leaned in, not giving the woman the chance to protest. She needn't have worried, however, because soon enough a light pressure landed chastely on her lips.

Rachel was already kissing her.

It was fleeting. It was innocent. It was perfect.

A camera shutter clicked behind them. It was time.


	21. Can't Take My Eyes Off You

"Two updates in one day?" you surely ask. Oh, don't get used to it.

Again, Glee is not mine but all mistakes are.

* * *

Oh. **Rated R** for Santana.

* * *

The constant fluttering and fawning of the photography team chafed her nerves worse and worse with every move. Normally, she thrived on this type of thing. The attention from an adoring public enslaved her. It was the most intoxicating drug on the planet, and she missed it. It'd be easy to relapse and return to the lifestyle she once had. But when it came to her children, Rachel reevaluated her desire. She didn't want this for them. And she didn't like how they were being treated. It was nearly an hour into the shoot, and her barely checked anger rose with each new instruction or comment from Andrew. So what if Ava's dress was a little wrinkled? Who cared if Joshua's left foot wasn't pointed straight forward? And why did it matter whether Daniel fiddled with the hem of the designer t-shirt? He wasn't stretching it out, nor was he fidgeting aside from those restless fingers tugging at the fabric. He was doing remarkably well with these pictures, but Rachel could tell his limit was fast approaching.

Actually, that limit passed them by about ten minutes ago. The camera flashes, the reflector screens, the nonstop movement and the voices and footsteps of the crew—it was too much for her son. His sensory integration differences were under duress. Too many lights. Too many sounds. Too many people. Too many variables invaded his balanced life—one that the family had taken great care to provide when he needed it. This house was his safety zone. Rachel saw he felt threatened, but she did not want to see him defend himself. It was amazing he hadn't gotten up and left already, that he sat waiting as best he could and not complaining. But the blinking of his eyes increased with each flash and his hands couldn't be stilled. He was done.

She looked to Quinn, silently asking her if she shared the same opinion. And like this morning, their unspoken language regarding the kids returned. Quinn watched Daniel for a moment. The blonde frowned then nodded.

"Andrew?" Rachel interrupted. "It's time to finish up with the children and break for lunch." Her tone brooked no argument.

The posh old man climbed down from his perch on his stepstool, upset. She didn't see why since multiple memory cards were filled with shots of the family. Moreover, she didn't care. He didn't need more. Andrew's lead assistant, Billy, managed to capture the pre-photoshoot antics of the Fabray-Berrys at play. Those paired with these staged photos should be plenty for the magazine and for Geoffrey. It was one in the afternoon and everyone looked tired and hungry. She was sick of seeing her family so exposed. None of them was happy with this and Quinn had taken to grimacing now. While Daniel…he needed out.

So, if Andrew had a problem with that, too bad. This was her family and she'd been more than accommodating today. She didn't have to agree to allow this publicity shoot in her home, and she sure as Sondheim did not have to agree to allow her children to be photographed like this. They were through. The actress would wear whatever outfit assigned and pose however Andrew wanted, but her children were finished. With no objections from Andrew, Rachel tapped her son's arm and pretended she wasn't hurt by his flinching from her. It wasn't personal. It never was with him. She signaled for him to stand.

Daniel rose from his crouched position, taking Ava skyward with him. She dangled over his shoulder with her arms hanging down his back, the two of them a firefighter carrying a roll of fire hose.

"Can I go?" he asked.

Rachel nodded but he already passed her, then Quinn, only stopping because Joshua intercepted him, lifting Ava off Daniel's shoulder and throwing her over his own. The taller boy kept walking. Out of the office, away from the stimuli.

Joshua didn't hold on to his sister for long. "Okay, she's all sweaty and I'm kinda dying."

The brunette mother frowned. For the teen to overheat in the stifling atmosphere, with so many people crammed into a moderately narrow room and wearing a thick sweater, wasn't out of the ordinary. But for Ava in her nightgown-like dress to be doing the same, well, that wasn't so usual. However, the lamps were hot and Rachel herself perspired under their beams. She wished more of them were the cool-burning halogen type. Unfortunately they didn't provided the most flattering lighting to illuminate the set as a whole.

Her oldest child passed off her youngest to their other mother. Quinn had shed her cardigan sometime in the last four seconds. Her stretchy black shirt clung like a second skin, her blonde locks were mildly damp from sweat, and her face and neck were flushed. She looked amazing.

Heat suffused Rachel's checks. It had nothing to do with the hot glow cast over them but everything to do with Quinn. Their kiss had been nice. More than. It left her lips tingling and her heart bobbling in her throat. It was the kiss she'd wanted to give her wife when she'd walked in on the bathroom conversation but chickened out at the last second. And it ended quickly. Rachel's insecurity defensively categorized it as more of a peck than a kiss, and she didn't know which of them to blame. Quinn, because she initiated it? Or herself, because she leapt the chasm between their mouths and latched onto the lips she knew so well?

Then again, did that kiss warrant any blame?

"She's out again," Quinn said.

Rachel smiled softly, shaking away all thoughts of the kiss. "She's been tired all week. I believe it's a combination of starting her dance class and her allergies." Late summer into fall proved worst for their child. It was ragweed season, and New York was strangely notorious for it. Ava's autumn misery began her first year of life. Then only eight months old, she'd been one unhappy baby.

Quinn hummed in agreement. "Right. Plus she stayed up pretty late last night. She's got to be exhausted if she conked out during this."

True. Ava lasted about twenty minutes before crankiness overcame her, and she'd fallen asleep shortly after Andrew positioned her over Daniel's shoulder. He'd wanted a profile shot of Daniel on the floor with Rachel standing at his side and Ava "flying" over him like she'd done with Joshua. But in the time it took to prepare his camera, she'd snuggled into her brother and drifted off. The brunette mother doubted Andrew had many photos of her with her eyes open.

Joshua peeled off his sweater and revealed the black and white checkered button-up plastering his skin. He had it the worst under these lights. He scarcely made it to the clothing racks before the shirt was off, and the jeans were quick to follow. Both were given to Amy, the wardrobe woman, whose sights remained on the muscular young man wearing nothing but boxer shorts. Like a model for a Calvin Klein advertisement. Rachel was appalled, shocked into silence.

"_Joshua Hiram_!" Quinn all but hissed at him.

"What? I'm hot."

Vaguely, Rachel overheard an "I'll say" from behind her. She couldn't turn around fast enough. Billy looked dazed, focused on her son.

"Hey, John Wayne Gacy. If you wants to keep them pedophilac peepers, I suggest you avert your motherfucking gaze rights abouts now," Santana said from across the room.

She'd stayed since returning Ava, plopping down in the office chair and kicking her feet up on the desk. The lawyer claimed boredom, but Rachel knew she was making sure the employees adhered to the stipulations of the contract updates Geoffrey sent her, which had been why she'd made her way over today in the first place. Only to get beaten by her best friend. Yet, injury would not distract Tana from her roles as advocate and guardian of the children. Which, legally, she would be in the event of Rachel's and Quinn's deaths. Therefore, in accordance with her position as third mother-elect and family legal-eagle, the instant a memory card reached capacity, it was handed over to Santana for safe keeping until everyone sat down to approve which photos were acceptable. No exceptions. And she's not so nicely requested the phones of every crew member. They lined the desktop, allowing for no chance of anyone leaking unauthorized images of the kids.

The assistant jumped. He obviously didn't realize he'd spoken aloud. Just the same, it was inappropriate. Joshua was sixteen! And this man had to be in his forties or older.

"Did you hear me, Sandusky the Second?" Santana's bare feet, with their black polished toes, were off the wooden surface and on the ground before she finished her sentence. Sure, she went through the wringer with Quinn, but Rachel knew the girl from Lima Heights Adjacent rattled her cage within the acculturated New York lawyer.

Billy's Adam's Apple bobbed as he swallowed in fear. "I'm sorry, I—just…ummm…"

Quinn cut in. "You're going to go to lunch. And you're going to take your time. Then Andrew will call and let you know if your assistance is required for the rest of the day. That's what you "just umm". Understand?"

Sweet Stephen Schwartz, Quinn sounded scary. Whenever she displayed that level of calm while clearly irate, it was best to stay out of the way and be grateful her wrath was directed at someone else. Hopefully. The gnashing of teeth was very telling: Billy's day (and paycheck) just took a turn for the worse.

Rachel interrupted the unholy war brewing. She didn't honestly believe this man to be a pedophile otherwise he wouldn't have passed Geoffrey's background checks and gotten into her house. But she didn't like his response to Joshua, and she was very aware dear Billy wasn't the only one objectifying her teenaged son. "Why don't you take Laura and Amy with you? I'm sure they'd appreciate the invitation."

She had no doubt that redhead would pounce on Joshua like a tiger if given the chance. Out of everyone on the photography crew she had to be closest to his age, too. Amy was older, maybe in her early fifties, but Rachel didn't like the leer in her eyes either and would not risk her son near a possible cougar. She hadn't been able to get a good read on the dresser. ESP let her down today due to sleep deprivation and the stress of the previous twenty-four hours. Still, removing the make-up girl and the costumer from the vicinity of their temptation seemed the most prudent course of action. This was her son and this was her house. No jungle cats allowed.

Unless it was Quinn with a massive case of bedhead. Lions were therefore acceptable. As were panthers, because Santana was just petrifying sometimes. And both were categorically territorial.

Billy hopped into action, turning off the set lights as though doing so would solve world hunger. What a dedicated fellow. He grabbed the two women in question and rushed from Quinn's presence. Just because the doctor cradled an adorable toddler did not make her any less forbidding. And while Rachel was also wary of those particular three visitors, her glare wasn't nearly as ominous as her wife's. Any time hazel eyes shifted to jade, well, it was just good to stay away.

Those eyes were locked on Andrew who remained motionless by the small table of cameras, but Quinn didn't speak to him. "I don't think we'll be needing Billy for the rest of the day, do you, San?"

"I think you're right, Q." Santana smiled demurely at the photographer. "What about you, Drewby? I'm sure you can make do with one less minion."

Andrew sighed and begrudgingly agreed. Everyone in the room knew he didn't have a choice. "I'll tell him."

"I'll join you. Just to make sure he understands, of course." Santana grinned like a cat that caught its mouse and gestured for Andrew to leave the office ahead of her. She scooped up the cell phones on the way. The two remaining assistants filed out as well, chasing their phones.

Rachel closed her eyes. Her reputation as a temperamental diva would be resurrected shortly. No way would Billy refrain from gossiping to the media about his "unfair" sacking. Technically, Rachel wasn't firing him. Quinn and Santana were.

"Is she always so beastly?" Clarissa asked. She stood next to Joshua, holding out his own t-shirt to him while he pulled on his jeans.

The actress tilted her head to the side and removed an earring not belonging to her. "When it comes to the kids, yes. She's fiercely protective of them. But she's a lot more relaxed with me and—"

"She'll hang me out to dry in an instant. Horribly fickle."

Rachel frowned at Quinn's lie. Did she not recognize this great opportunity to exalt some of Santana's finer qualities instead of dragging her down? So maybe the two women didn't hit it off earlier, but what harm would it do to nudge them in the right direction to try again? People should get second chances.

Well, that thought gave her pause.

An electronic chirrup eradicated it. Joshua retrieved his phone from his pocket and read the text he received. "_Tía_ says lunch is here."

"What? We haven't—"

Another beep cut her short.

"She says stop asking questions and come eat…umm…Hobbit." Joshua's face turned beet red. "Sorry Mama." He backed out of the room, off to eat food already foraged.

Rachel groaned inwardly and took out the other earring while toeing off the sandals she wore. Tana would be getting a talking to. She picked up the shoes and brought them to Clarissa who'd stepped up and taken over wardrobe in Amy's absence. It was nice seeing someone be a responsible adult.

"Go eat, please. I can put these away."

Clarissa shook her head. "I'm not really hungry. Besides, it's my job to help and Amy doesn't take too kindly to outsiders messing with her method."

The brunette could certainly relate to that. If things weren't done the way she liked, then they might as well not have been done at all. She shucked the seashell bracelet and reached for the zipper running up the back of her dress. A grumble came from her right and she twisted around, puzzled.

Quinn had shifted the dead weight of Ava higher on her chest and shoulder, and a pink t-shirt dangled from between her clenched teeth. She'd unzipped the back of the little gown and was slogging one sleeve down Ava's shoulder, but with no success. Rachel rolled her eyes and moved to help. She stood in front of her wife, Ava sandwiched between them. Eye contact wasn't necessary and the two mothers worked together. With experienced movements, Rachel freed their daughter's arms. Quinn pulled the fabric from below, lifting the little girl away from her torso in a wave-like motion to tug the dress down and off. It caught on Ava's foot and Rachel quickly unhooked it while grabbing the shirt from Quinn's parting teeth. A pair of matching track pants appeared from under the blonde's arm and their hands met recurrently as they wiggled in one short leg at a time, drawing the pants up then smoothing the shirt over Ava's head and back. Chubby arms peeked out the sleeves and fell limply at the little girl's sides.

The dance of dressing a sleeping child, ladies and gentleman. They could do it backward, too. And although they were out of practice, Rachel gave it a nine. She smiled at Quinn. Quinn smiled back. Ava slept on.

"I'll put her in bed and get the clothes from Danny," Quinn said.

Rachel stroked Ava's hair for a minute and agreed. The brunette kissed her daughter's warm cheek and presented Quinn with another tiny smile. One she hoped was understood with the gentleness and gratitude she intended. Then she spoke her same words from this morning, but in a much different tone. "I'll see you downstairs?"

Quinn returned the smile tenfold and reached her free arm around Rachel's back, pulling her close, but not near enough to touch elsewhere. Tapered fingers met the zipper of Rachel's dress, towing the slider away from the top stops and down the chain of metal teeth until they halted at the base of her spine right where her lower back curved. Those fingertips lingered above her skin but didn't touch. Instead, a barely-there kiss grazed her forehead and Quinn stepped away.

"Th-thanks." Did she just stutter?

Loving hazel eyes swept over her face and Rachel's cheeks flamed. The taller woman dipped her head in reply then adjusted Ava one last time and walked out of the room.

Rachel may as well have swallowed sand for how dry her mouth was. A chill gusted up her back and she hurried to the clothing rack and portable dressing screen. Clarissa draped her shirt and hoodie over the top of it. Forgoing a bra, she slipped the shirt on over the strapless bodice, sliding the dress down her legs and stepping into the yoga pants that'd replaced the jeans she'd originally put on today. The blood and grape soda weren't ever coming out. So, they met their end in a household hazmat bag along with her robe. She wanted no mementos of that fight. Rachel strode out from behind the screen.

"You're lucky." Clarissa took the dress and secured it to a hanger by its clear plastic bands then placed it on the metal bar of the rack.

"Excuse me?"

"She loves you." The stylist smiled, wistful. "It's rare to see that these days, you know? People get so good at hiding things, or they never learn how to express them at all, but her? It's written all over her face."

"Oh." The actress shifted from one foot to the other, stupidly afraid to look into those violet eyes. Why was she discussing private issues with a stranger? Clarissa had to be some kind of truth magnet, one with no personal boundaries. Rachel wasn't sure she was okay with that right now, no matter how much she liked this woman. She trusted her without knowing why, but didn't trust herself to continue their conversation.

Clarissa smiled. "Yeah. Must be nice, knowing your spouse still has it bad for you."

Rachel blinked away the pricking behind her eyes. Clarissa's confidence in the topic bolstered her somewhat, but the last thing Rachel needed was hopefulness that would surely be bashed to the ground. "Right. Well. Do come down whenever you're finished. Whether you're hungry or not, I shan't be known as a poor hostess."

She wandered downstairs to the kitchen and found Santana standing by the nearest counter. She gagged at the stench suffocating the room. It differed from this morning's bacon—all _in viro_ meat had a peculiar, clean scent to it. However, this reeked and Rachel loathed asking something to which she already knew the answer. "What is that, and why is it in my house?"

Santana glanced up then stepped aside to reveal the offensive source, holding out her hands like a game show presenter.

"This," she said, beaming with a misplaced sense of pride, "is a culinary masterpiece. I know you're unfamiliar with such a thing of beauty, so let me break it down for you."

Rachel grimaced, uninterested in what she knew was coming but couldn't ward off.

"Right here is the divine union of bleached white flour wheat buns lovingly hugging market fresh tomatoes, lettuce, onions, jalapenos, a sweet mustard glaze with just the smallest dollop of ketchup, and a thin slice of processed cheese—probably colored by yellow dye five—nestled between two eight ounce patties of genuine bovine beefy goodness. Yeah, this used to moo. In the most banal terms, it's a hamburger. A glorious, succulent, and wondrous thing that's soon to reside in my stomach for roughly the next four hours."

She centered the burger in its paper wrapping, flimsy and transparent from the grease. Rachel nearly heaved while Santana grinned like she was trying to get it into bed with her. Oh, eww. Rachel hoped the lawyer didn't really do that, but she wouldn't put it past her. She choked back the bile in her throat.

"Stuff it, Berry. I refuse to let you ruin this for me." The woman's voice was thick with lust. For a sandwich. She pressed it down, flattening it bit by bit. The oily fat and meat juice dripping out of it was horrid.

"What, pray tell, are you doing now?"

Santana didn't withdraw her gaze from the object of her desire. "Ya gotta seduce it a little, persuade it into your mouth. Unlike the women I've fucked. They didn't take anywhere near the kind of work as this tour de flavor force does." She then shot Rachel a smirk then went back to loving on her food.

"You, and it, are disgusting."

"I think not, dwarf. We are both quite delicious. One of us more so than the other."

That slow lick of plump lips worked on many women, but not Rachel. There was only ever one mouth on her mind. Thoughts of Quinn and that easy grin brought a smile to her face. She couldn't help it.

Things between them were going well. Far better than she expected, given the circumstances.

Since the incidents this morning, there'd been no arguing or fighting. Quinn hadn't even spoken during the shoot, except to the children. She'd remained silent whenever Andrew changed his mind from one idea to another and repositioned the Fabray-Berrys over and over. She'd stood quiet sentinel over the family, but kept a small distance from Rachel, managing to always have a child between them. It wasn't out of coldness. She was respecting Rachel's request for time and space as best as possible in the enclosed location. It was equally nice and frustrating.

However, Rachel _liked_ being in her wife's arms. She liked that kiss. And she liked seeing Quinn so protective. It wasn't for her, but for their children. Quinn jumped in and halted one of the younger photography assistants before he could manually pose Daniel. She'd swung Ava to and fro, her arms swaying like slender tree boughs in support of their daughter's weight. She'd ruffled Joshua's hair, much to his and Clarissa's chagrin. She'd been _Quinn_. The Quinn Rachel fell in love with during the summer before their senior year at McKinley. The Quinn who'd strayed to fight gay panic with a rebellion of pink hair and an unfortunate tattoo. (Thank goodness she'd gotten rid of it. Rachel had a conniption when she first saw it. Although, that fit didn't compare to the one she had when she discovered her not-really-girlfriend/significant-friend-with-benefits spent her "alone time" hanging around with some forty-year-old skate boarder named Sarah, however.) The Quinn who'd come back to her and came out, holding Rachel's hand and facing McKinley's homophobia with the support of her girlfriend, the glee club, her coach, and her mother.

Her morning was filled with traces of who Quinn once was and the reasons Rachel missed her. Missed her so much. And loved her.

She loved how Quinn ran her tongue over her teeth, worried they'd budge out of place and hoping her tongue would realign them all. The compulsion developed when she'd been Lucy and worn braces, but Quinn still did it as though unconsciously checking that every tooth was in place. Rachel thought it was sort of cute. Especially since it'd incorporated into Quinn's smile. That pink tongue always netted between two rows of perfect teeth, trapped in the lower left corner of her mouth. It was her laughing smile. The one that showed up whenever Rachel did something Quinn found amusing but wouldn't tell her what or why.

There were other things she missed, too. Being scolded or thumped with a pillow for committing the great sin of reading over Quinn's shoulder. Or watching the doctor read on her own from afar. Quinn's habit of pulling the neckline of her shirt up over her chin and mouth, stopping just above her top lip, was adorable. It gave the impression of a turtle and never failed in motivating Rachel to think up new ways of how to sneak close and tear the material down so she could kiss the blonde senseless. Then strut away and wait for Quinn to follow.

And the way Quinn opened boxes. Stupid and strange as it was, Rachel both liked and hated the way Quinn tore into cereal or snack boxes like a bear as though the "open here" packaging instruction was merely a suggestion. It usually created a mess, but it was a mess Rachel missed telling her to clean up. God, she was being so dumb. Who missed someone who did that? Or who moved around in her sleep like she was participating in a dream decathlon? Yes, if Quinn had the empty space for it, she was quite the athletic sleeper and very hard to keep hold of. Always moving, sleeping or waking.

But she loved how, that when Quinn stopped and stood still, her hand always rested on her left hip in its idleness. Brushing her teeth, scrolling through her phone, whatever. Whenever Quinn's right hand happened to be occupied, her left fell to her waist and displayed the golden circle Rachel put there nearly twenty years ago.

The actress frowned, seeing her own ring glint in the overhead lights. She'd put it back on as per Geoffrey's less than subtle urging. In that instant, however, she couldn't recall why she'd taken it off in the first place. That was a half-truth. She did it because she was tired of seeing what a broken promise looked like.

"_¡Fo, que mal huele aqui!_ What _is_ that?"

Rachel was startled from her reverie by Clarissa's question, absently noting the hair stylist spoke the Puerto Rican dialect of Spanish. More accurately the "Nuyorican" dialect of New York. She wondered if the woman grew up speaking it or just lived in the city long enough, because it didn't sound stilted like secondary education-only Spanish employed by many whites of the country—which baffled her because it was the second official language; people should be using it more naturally now. Still, the interruption exiled thoughts of broken promises to the back of her brain wherein resided all the other things Rachel didn't like thinking or speaking about. They were the kinds of things she used as sources when she needed to convey a particular emotion in a character. Once they served their purpose, they were again cast to the far reaches of her mind. Bottling things up was bad, she knew this, but it was _not_ dealing with those feelings and insecurities that made her performances all the more powerful and engaging and she couldn't afford to lose them. Rachel sobered instantly. Instead of working through her issues and letting things go, she'd tightened her grasp on them for the sake of her career. All at the sacrifice of her wife.

"That so-called_ bad smell_ is the—"

"It's Santana's hamburger," Rachel said mechanically, curtailing the snide remarks on their way out of Santana's mouth. However, her mind stormed with accusations and recriminations for what she'd done. How she'd chosen her dreams and the means to achieve them over their marriage just as much as Quinn had.

"Must you be so pedestrian in your descriptions? It's not like you, Berry."

"Fabray-Berry." It came out strong, definite. Rachel looked up from the gold band on her finger. "It's Fabray-Berry."

"Is that so?" Ms. Lopez of the New York State Bar Association materialized in her kitchen. _Dolce & Gabbana _sunglasses, gym clothes, and bare feet notwithstanding, the attorney was still fearsome as the fires of Hell themselves.

"Yes." Rachel's stare was hard and unwavering. "It is."

"And you're sure about that?"

Ab-so-fucking-lute-ly. "I'm certain of it." Nothing but the whole truth, so help her God.

"I see. Well," Ms. Lopez jutted her smug chin. Then, as though years of schooling never happened and that certificate reading "_Juris Doctor_" didn't exist, Tana slouched against the counter, utterly nonchalant. "Good to know, Hobby."

"Is that real meat?" Clarissa looked confused and ready to vomit.

"Damn right it is. Don't tell me. You're one of those hippies who either doesn't eat anything animally or just sticks to lab-meat." Santana sneered then inhaled long and deep, a smile returning to her face.

"Vegetarian, not vegan."

"You poor soul," she muttered, focused on her current and non-human lover.

"It's as big as your head." Clarissa snarled at her, hand still on her stomach. Her milky white skin tinged a kind of asparagus green. Rachel took a precautionary step back in case the hair stylist truly was as queasy as she looked.

"All the more for me to love." The lawyer gave Clarissa a slow and obvious once-over and sultry smirk. "I'm developing a liking for…fuller things."

"You're sickening."

"I'm awesome. You just have a stick up your ass. Good luck getting rid of it. Heeeyyy," Tana said as though the BEST idea just occurred to her. "Q's a doctor, I'm sure she'll help you out."

"Help with what?"

Quinn strolled into the kitchen. She'd redressed in her sleepwear and her chopped blonde hair blew free and tousled about her head. No one answered but they watched the doctor move around, retrieving plates and setting them next to pizza boxes Rachel hadn't noticed. She dug through the fridge for a minute, picking and choosing and looking at labels, then finally deciding and pouring a glass of orange juice. That was new… and gross. Since when did Quinn drink orange juice with her pizza? Since when did _anyone_ do that?

Before Rachel got the chance to ask, her wife handed the tall glass over to Clarissa. What was going on?

All three brunettes fixed the blonde with puzzled stares, but the youngest one asked, "What's this?"

"Orange juice. Does a body good or something."

"That's milk, Stretch Marks."

She sighed. "Fine then. Just pretend it'll help with whatever you're talking about."

"Orange juice is gonna pull the stick from her ass?"

"Sure, San." Quinn rolled her eyes and attacked the pizza. "Or we could say it's masking the bad taste you tend to leave in people's mouths."

Santana gasped. "Blasphemy! Everybody likes my pus—"

"Tana!" _Why_ was she friends with this cad?

The lawyer huffed. "Taco. Better?"

"Actually, Dr. Fabray may be right," Clarissa said, shooting a glance to Quinn and looking much better. No signs of nausea anywhere. "And I seem to have lost my taste for Mexican suddenly." She leveled Santana with a glare and sipped her drink.

Santana faced the younger woman head on, a dark eyebrow raising from behind her sunglasses. "Well that's a shame. I recommend getting your hands on some fine Puerto Rican then. Far superior cuisine."

Their sexual tension crackled the air like lightning. Rachel couldn't tell if the two women were about to kill each other or go at it right here in the kitchen. Either seemed plausible.

Violet eyes traveled the length of Tana's body in blatant appreciation and rage. They may not like each other, but Rachel could attest to the appeal of anger sex. The temporary silence exploded into loud bickering. Santana had too much vivacity for her own, or anyone else's, good. Rachel didn't know if she should stop them or not. Indecisive eyes rested on Quinn who appeared all too amused.

She sat on the countertop, munching a slice of pizza and swinging her feet back and forth. Her heels thudded on the cupboards while she observed the other two brunettes in the room catapult insult after insult at each other. Rachel approached her, noticing then ignoring that this was the same countertop she'd been sitting on this morning with Quinn's fingers inside her. A shiver raced through her. Not the time.

"You're enjoying this," she whispered, hoping the arousal in her voice wasn't obvious.

"Immensely." The doctor grinned. "This is the most alive I've seen San in…" She counted on her fingers. "Ever." Then she shook her head, eyes and shoulders drooping. "Won't work out, though."

Rachel tried asking what that meant, but a half-eaten slice of pizza got shoved into her open mouth.

Hazel eyes danced with mirth and a hint of trepidation. Guilt for putting the fright in that gaze speared Rachel's heart and she was resolved: they could either be afraid together or not at all. She liked the "no fear" option. She took a bite.

Chewing and swallowing down the vegan calorie festival headed for her stomach, Rachel returned the favor. She grabbed Quinn's nose, squeezing it until that strong jaw unlocked, then forced the pizza past her lips and smirked.

Quinn chucked the food to the side and trapped Rachel with her legs, reversing their position from this morning's indecency. Rachel's hands playfully pushed at muscled thighs, then arms when that failed to free her. Her wife snickered at her wriggling and imprisoned her wrists, eliciting the same carnal response as their early morning fight.

Instead of using the steady grip as a restraint, Quinn brought their gathered hands to her fair-skinned chest, exposed by the cut of the tank top. She wobbled but was held fast and secure, and a perfect nose brushed along the length of her imperfect one. All she had to do was tilt her chin upward and she'd be there, kissing Quinn again. Better than before.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, but that's all she heard. Shouldn't there be a mêlée of malcontent non-witticisms currently happening? She didn't lean up, but tilted back. Only enough to search for the fiery duo and hope there weren't bodies on the linoleum—dead, or otherwise occupied. What she saw was a truce of sorts. Santana and Clarissa watched them, each with a grin.

"Yes?" Rachel asked. When in doubt, she went the route of the haughty. "May we help you?"

Quinn released her wrists but her hands naturally settled on the blonde's chest, palms down and fingertips trailing along a prominent collarbone. The doctor's staccato heartbeat and the throbbing of the vein running along the side of her neck were about to be Rachel's undoing. She forced her sights to remain on the other women.

"Watching you two is like watching really classy porn. All intimate and sweet before the hardcore fuc—"

"_Santana!_" Quinn's shout made them all flinch.

Kill her now, Lord. Just do it now. Rachel's hands fell away, landing on either side of Quinn on the granite surface of the counter. Santana Lopez was the bane of her existence.

"What? I lived with her. I know exactly what you two got up to. Some weekends you didn't leave the freakin' apartment. Also, point of order, did you think I wouldn't notice the amount of my Shunga body paint diminishing with every visit? Really?"

Santana's tone went from indignant to a more subdued yet pretentious snark.

"Now, I didn't say anything at the time because I'm a lady and we's don't discuss such things, but it would have been nice to be asked, you know? Common courtesy. Although, I did like the new bottle you got me for my birthday that one year. If I hadn't known what you two sex fiends were up to I woulda thought it was an invitation for a threesome—which I totes woulda been down with, bee tee dubs—but it was a nice gesture. The original Vanilla and Chocolate Temptation tasted better, but the strawberries and champagne flavor did not go unappreciated. Side note: now that this is all out in the open, did you ever try that stuff on food instead of just licking it off each other's tits? I swear it was better than Nutella. Damn, hold up," she paused, pulling out her phone and speaking to it. "Reminder: buy Shunga body paint."

The automated voice agreed, and Santana nodded thoughtfully.

"Cool, ain'ts had that shit in years," she mumbled to no one in particular, then replaced the device in the front pocket of the borrowed sports fleece she wore and looked at them all. "Aight, what was I saying?"

No one moved in the silence of the kitchen. Rachel's brain misfired, and her mouth dangled wide. Disbelieving eyes carried over the space. Clarissa's face went scarlet. Eyes that'd deepened to indigo met hers but quickly darted away and the younger woman chugged down the glass of orange juice. Rachel studied Quinn, but only peripherally. Now was not the time to walk down kinky memory lane and reminisce about what the pre-med undergraduate moonlighting as an art student could do with a bottle of edible body paint and an authentic bamboo calligraphy brush. Which had been purchased new instead of using the kitschy, sponge-tipped imitation one from the manufacturer. Quinn invested in a set of genuine art tools as opposed to buying their own Shunga paint, however, because she knew it'd irritate Santana, and Rachel admittedly liked the naughtiness of harmless stealing on top of using the product at all. But the idea of sharing the same applicator as their friend held infinite squik factor.

Quinn's lips squashed in a tight line, cheeks blazing, and her eyes bulged at the insouciant lawyer who'd spoken as though they were discussing the weather.

Santana herself looked indifferent and picked up her burger. "Fuck I'm hungry." She bit into it, moaning. Seduction successful.

It started as a low rumble in her belly. Then it bubbled up in her chest, shaking her, until it broke free and charged out of her mouth and pervaded the room, echoing off every surface of the kitchen.

Rachel laughed.

And couldn't stop.

She laughed until her eyes watered and her cheeks ached. The diva's frame shook harder, and her head flew back as her mouth opened wide in delight. Maybe it was delight. It could have been exhaustion or merely the moment's coping method. Whatever it was, it felt good. Like nothing was wrong and her life hadn't gone so far off course at it seemed and everything would be okay. It wasn't true. They couldn't pretend nothing happened or that all was well. But for now it just felt so fucking good not to give a damn. Not to control things. Not to sort out what she felt from what she was supposed to feel. Not try to fix things. Yet. They had time. She'd make sure of it. Later, they'd talk and figure out where they were and where they were going. But for now, she surrendered.

Attempting to stifle the cacophony would be foolhardy. So she relaxed into Quinn, still front to front. Then the arms, the ones that held her like no other's, pulled her even closer.

"It took you twenty years to say that, San?" Quinn asked.

"What? Not like it comes up a lot."

Yes it did. Santana Lopez pontificated on sex and anything related to it all the time. Why this conversation was long overdue didn't matter to Rachel, however. Because her wife was chuckling along with her. So what if it took twenty years to say? It was said and done and Quinn's tongue was nestled in the corner of the doctor's mouth, lips parted in a wide grin.

There it was.

"I missed that smile," Rachel said quietly, calm.

Quinn's smile blossomed all the more and her voice was tentative, but light. "I missed that laugh."

Rachel looked at her wife with a new kind of wonder, knowing she wanted to say more but not certain what.

Santana's timely vulgarity butted in. "Unless you two are actually gonna kiss and give me dinner and show, knock it the fuck off. This "will they won't they" BS is ruining my appetite."

No one told Rachel Fabray-Berry when she could and could not kiss her wife.

Her hands shot up from the countertop, and grabbed. One circled Quinn's waist, the other fastened to the nape of her neck. She raked her fingers upward through messy hair and urged Quinn's face to hers. If the blonde had any misgivings about their situation, she didn't show it. Instead, her eyes spoke directly to the contrary. They weren't hazel. Nor were they angry jade. They were emerald, deep and lustrous and holding Rachel completely enthralled. Everything went into overload. Blood racing, heat thumping, breath catching skin tingling and every other cliché applied in this situation. Something just shifted between them. She didn't know what it was, but everything in that gaze told her this wouldn't be a quick and dirty reprise this morning. Neither was it simply a recalcitrant act to shut Santana's yapping mouth. Calm settled around her and she kissed the lips in front of hers. It was slow and coaxing. It was tender, yes, but the brunette tasted desperation behind it. She tried to swallow it down but got Quinn's moan instead. The kiss was…awesome. There were tongues brushing and little licks, but it was still youthful and perhaps a little scared.

Rachel timed the strokes of her tongue with the strokes of her fingers in cornsilk hair.

Quinn's sigh turned into a growl and she took over. She tried, rather, but the brunette wasn't having it. Their tongues bandied back and forth, trading mouths while sinewy arms tightened around her, forcing her on her toes while the doctor explored. Quinn locked her hands at the small of Rachel's back, holding her hostage against a softly toned figure and the edge of the counter stabbing into her abdomen. However, all discomfort was replaced with the delirious pleasure of the blonde's tongue sweeping throughout her mouth and of their chests rubbing together. Rachel's back arched more, pushing them further against each other. She reveled in the throaty growl it procured and smiled against Quinn's mouth. She was kissing her wife.

Daring teeth nibbled her lip as her fingers teased the sensitive skin of Quinn's scalp. The shiver that rocketed through them both was enough of a jolt to break the kiss. Though unwilling to let go, Rachel angled her head back to look at her. Heavy lids blinked, revealing eyes so dark they couldn't rightfully be called hazel or emerald or any other shade of green, vividly contrasting with bright pink cheeks and swollen red lips. Rachel saw her reflection in those dilated pupils and let out a shaky breath. She was beautiful in Quinn's eyes.

An exaggerated sniffle sounded to their right. The couple turned to see the most coldblooded, calculating, and all around callous bitch in the world pretending to wipe a tear from underneath her sunglasses. "So fuckin' sweet."

"I agree, actually." Clarissa was intensely focused on her phone, frowning, then up at them. She looked sad. "Everyone's on their way back."

The actress sighed and rested her forehead in the crook of her wife's neck. Partly because she wasn't able to deal with how confused she felt, and partly because she wasn't sure if she could look at the blonde again without kissing her.

"Ready for round two?" Quinn asked.

Rachel sucked in a breath, mustering all the professionalism, skill, equanimity, and geniality she had left and straightened. "As I'll ever be."


	22. Silver Wings & Golden Rings

Flashback! Fluffy and unbeta'd (like every other chapter).

Disclaimer: Glee? So not mine.

* * *

Quinn was nervous. Very nervous. So nervous that her leg wouldn't stop moving. It kept springing up and down, higher and higher each time as though its goal was hitting the ceiling above. The speed of its bounce was sedate compared to her heart. It hammered against her ribcage, sending blood and terror racing through her veins. Is this what a heart attack felt like? She hoped not. She was too young to die. And she had things to do first.

The rumble of the train zipping along the track became white noise, droning the lullaby of Manhattan. It did nothing to soothe her. The bright lights of the train car weren't helping either. She'd been on edge for nearly thirty-six hours and what little calm came in the reprieve of today's adventures abandoned her about fifteen minutes ago when the reality of her situation sank in. The body next to hers jittered like a chipmunk on crack.

Quinn's knee had nothing on Rachel. The girl was full of energy and running on an adrenaline high since this morning's departure from her and San's apartment on Mulberry Street. They barely slept last night, caught up in bed celebrating the end of Yale's final exams and the pre-med's week-long visit before she returned to New Haven for summer courses. She was on the fast track and projected to graduate by the end of the calendar year instead of next spring. This coming summer would be their last spent "apart" and then she'd be free—free to be with Rachel. For the rest of her life. God willing. She just had to get through this train ride. When they'd gotten to the subway station, Rachel had been so in her own world of excitement she hadn't noticed it was the wrong one, meaning they'd boarded the wrong train. Intentionally. Because Quinn had a plan. It wasn't the greatest plan—not by far—but it was the best she could come up with on short notice. Because she was a moron who let the idea run away with her earlier this week. Although this day together had been scheduled for a while, this last thing was kind of her eleven o'clock number.

Rachel did it. She made it on Broadway. Since coming to New York she'd gotten leads in small productions so far off Broadway they were in Timbuktu, as well as ensemble parts in more well know shows closer to the Great White Way. Now she'd won the role of a lifetime in the much anticipated revival of her favorite musical of all time: Fanny Brice in _Funny Girl_.

She smiled, hearing the flouncy girl next to her prattle on about the unfairness of _Funny Girl_ opening after the nomination deadline for the Tony Awards, but how the motivated starlet would persevere and give them a year to see her talent and how much she deserved one of those little mounted golden medallions. This loud, obnoxious, ambitious, unstoppable force from Lima, Ohio was on the brink, ready to take the whole world by storm. And Quinn would do anything she could to keep her girl's dream alive. She owed her that, and she couldn't be more proud of the blossoming actress. Rachel Berry was on her way.

Today had been planned once the petite woman's agent told her the _Funny Girl_ billboard's debut date in Times Square. Instead of heading there directly, they'd traversed the city like tourists, seeing some things they hadn't the time for during Quinn's previous trips from Yale but mostly revisiting their favorites. Smiling and laughing, they'd spent the day carefree and playful. It started with a giant fruit bowl shared for breakfast at Pinkberry near Rachel and San's apartment. They'd gotten smoothies to go and walked the ten minutes to the Tenement Museum on Orchard for a guided tour. Which had been depressing and humbling and made Quinn so grateful for all the things she and Rachel had both growing up and now, and the things they'd have in the future. Yes, she was destined to be a doctor with mountains of school debt, but she had faith that she'd be able to provide for Rachel, to give her a good and stable life in case Broadway didn't work out.

But honestly, that was impossible. Broadway was created because some ancient prophet foresaw Rachel's coming. That was the only explanation. She was like the Messiah of live theatre or something.

After that a happier mood set in at the Hester Street Fair, and an espresso from Café Grumpy gave the blonde a much needed boost before they hopped the M15 bus toward Battery Park. They walked the esplanade, taking their time and enjoying the nice weather and fantastic views, from the horizon sights to the promenade itself with the gardens and art along the way. Her favorite was the unofficial artwork of a stretch of sidewalk covered in children's chalk drawings. Rachel, of course, loved the musically themed pieces. She ran her hands over the giant lute of _Resonating Bodies_ and pogoed like a Dance Dance Revolution champion on the interactive _Dance Chimes, _making her own beautiful music and Quinn laugh out loud. That led to a lunch of vegan Indian food from the NY Dosas restaurant cart next to Washington Square Park. Coconut chutney was a new experience but so good with her spicy samosas and vegan drumsticks. They'd eaten in the park, stealing each other's food then giving in and feeding one another like two stupid people in stupid love. All while watching the weird part and parcel of the park: someone beating a Steinway piano to death and calling it music, a hilariously failed attempt at a flash mob, then finally _good_ musicians gathering on the grass and just creating beautiful sounds or playing the stereotypical hippie tunes.

Rachel sang along to some. Quinn shouldn't have been surprised her girlfriend knew Bob Dylan songs.

Once the street musicians in the park dispersed, the girls strolled along Greenwich Avenue to the flower market in Chelsea and its inflated prices for mediocre bouquets. She grinned, thinking of the custom arrangement she'd already had sent to the girls' ultimate destination. It'd been expensive but would hopefully worth it once Rachel saw it. Otherwise she refused to pay back Santana's itsy bitsy and unspecified loan she didn't know she gave Quinn. Yet.

From there they took the E line toward 30 Rockefeller Plaza for the spectacular view from the Top of the Rock Observation Deck. The city was mindboggling and impressive if people took the time to slow down and see it. She'd almost done it then, and it'd taken every crumb of resolve not to reach for the velvet box in her purse. Strength of will won out and she simply held the shorter girl, keeping herself in check. Night fell and eagerness conquered. They all but ran to Times Square, itching to see the billboard with Rachel's beautiful face on it illuminate for the first time. It was magnificent. They'd grabbed some stranger to take a few photos of the two of them then Quinn almost packed her camera's memory card with images of just Rachel and her name in lights on the corner of Broadway and West 47th Street. Duffy's Square never looked better.

Now they were back on the subway. Rachel thought they were heading home; Quinn knew better. The train slowed and the blonde gently nudged her girlfriend. "Come on, babe. We're here."

Rachel smiled and followed with skipping footsteps, swinging their clasped hands back and forth. Quinn dragged her along with a hesitant smile, wondering how long until the animated woman noticed the ride had been far too short for them to be home yet.

"Umm, Quinn?" Rachel squeezed her hand, stopping them on the sidewalk of 42nd Street. "This isn't the right stop."

Of course it wasn't, they weren't even on the right subway line. They were at Grand Central Station. The blonde's hand squeezed back and led Rachel through the entrance of the famous terminal.

"I've got to do something real quick." The even coolness of her voice was a lie and her stomach knotted and rolled and fluttered and everything else it did when someone's uneasiness took over. She could do this.

"What could you possibly have to do? It's after business hours and you already have your ticket back to New Have—oh! Are you thinking about changing it? Do you want to leave sooner? I understand if you want some extra time to prepare for your summer semester, but I hoped you'd stay the whole week…"

Rachel carried on while Quinn navigated down the Grand Concourse. First looking overhead and seeing the painted night sky on the ceiling then all around her, she double checked their path. Tracks 39 through 42 ahead to the far left corner? Check. Biltmore Passage? Check. She paused. Across the way from the Starbucks? Check. Letters carved into the shiny marble actually spelling "The Biltmore Room"? Big check. This was the spot. The Kissing Room. Knowing Rachel was about to ask more questions, Quinn reached into her purse and pulled out the telltale box, not so casually holding it out to Rachel's gaze. She had a question of her own.

Rachel didn't move, and only the flare of her nostrils indicated she breathed. Then she spoke, the words cracking in her throat. "What's that?"

The blonde knew her girlfriend knew what it was. She couldn't resist being a smart ass, however. "A box."

Quinn took hold of Rachel's shaking hand and placed the velvet cube in her palm. The diva handled it with drama and timidity as if it were a bomb only she could diffuse but didn't know which wire to cut. Then she inhaled deeply and opened it.

Inside were two rings. Chosen in what she hoped Rachel would like best. Matching ones with gold bands and a modest, round cut gemstone in a six-pronged setting with six miniscule jewels on either side. That main stone wasn't her first choice, but she couldn't afford the diamond Rachel deserved. Even though it'd never be accepted based on principle.

The loquacious brunette hadn't said anything. Quinn couldn't take the silence.

"They're not diamonds," she blurted, cringing. Because she needed to look like more of an idiot, not even getting down on one knee. Trembling muscles and a wave of nausea told her that'd be a bad idea, she needed two feet on the ground lest she collapse in a panic, and every passing second with no words from Rachel Berry was another twist in Quinn's stomach.

"I know you don't like diamonds because of the exploitative nature of their mining and how inhumane and environmentally unfriendly it is. They're not synthetic ones, either because—" because she was a poor college student who'd be paying back academic and personal loans until she had a foot in the grave. "Anyway, they're white sapphires. And the little ones are only cubic zirconia so, you know, don't get too excited." She tried for a smile, but it fell short.

Rachel wasn't looking at her.

Had she screwed up? Misread their entire relationship? In her fear, her mouth kept moving.

"There're two because I always thought it was weird and unfair for one person to wear a ring while the other didn't and could go off and pretend to be single for a night or something if they wanted, like they didn't belong to somebody. And I don't want to do that. Because I belong to somebody—to you. I'm yours and I want the world to know that as much as I want them to know you're mine. If that's okay. And," she swallowed, not liking this addendum, but saying it regardless. "And if that's not okay or this is too fast or just isn't something you want at all then it's okay to say no and I won't be hurt—well, I will a little bit—but I won't leave unless you want me to, I'll still be yours. For as long as you want me. And for forever after that."

Teary rivulets cut down Rachel's cheeks, leaving a shine to her honey-brown complexion as Quinn continued blathering like a fool. Why couldn't she shut up? It was like she forgot how. And not seeing those chocolate colored orbs only made it worse. Why wouldn't she look at her?

"Maybe, umm…" she sniffled, not liking the tingle stinging her own eyes. "Maybe this wasn't the best place to do this, huh?"

What had she been thinking? Proposing in a train station on a Friday night while scads of people hurried about? She should explain, yeah? Yeah, probably. This made so much sense in her head. Now she was terrified she'd gone crazy.

"I wanted you to see your…options?...I guess. Or possibilities?" Her fingers pulled at themselves as if that would quell the anxiety roiling though her.

"This is the epicenter, Rach. From here people go all over the world, you know? They come and catch a train that whisks them away wherever or get off a train and get taxis to airports to go to other cities or countries, passing the people who are doing the same thing in reverse. What I mean is…it's the first or last stop for millions of people going all over the world. I know you've kinda gone all over with the touring companies but you're meant for more than that. You can go _any_where, Rachel. I've always thought that. Even when it didn't seem that way."

Another tear fell. She wished to wipe it away, cupping the girl's cheek and revel in the way Rachel always leaned in to her hand. But she didn't, unsure because those doe eyes she adored fixed solely on the jewelry box.

"I'll never hold you back, Rachel. I won't be that person. Not ever. But I will be waiting. Wherever you go and whenever you come back, I'll be here." She glanced around. "Obviously not _here_ here because I'm trying to be metaphorical because metaphors are important to you. What I mean is I want you to go as far as you can, baby. And if ever I can't go with you, then know that I'll be here. Waiting at the turnstile, so to speak."

Rachel's tears fell harder and Quinn's joined them, but quieter. Journeying all over Manhattan in a single day, seeing so many things at a nonstop pace, exhausted both women. She shouldn't have done this. Today was about celebrating Rachel's triumph and big stage debut in a leading role, and she'd just gone and messed it up by proposing to her girlf—

"Yes."

Fiancée.

It was her turn for silence. Dumbness, more exactly. Her stomach threatened revolt and her brain refused to let her believe the trickery of her ears.

Brown eyes stared at her, expectant.

"Quinn?"

The formally articulate blonde sputtered in surprise. "But…I mean… but I didn't ask yet. I didn—"

"Marry me, Quinn." Now it was Rachel who teetered on the verge of hyperventilating. "I answered your proposal now answer mine."

"Yes."

Instantaneous. Determined. Joyful. She grinned, no longer noticing the tears streaming her own face. Rachel smiled at her like she'd never seen before, a smile bright enough to light Quinn's whole world and pull her from the darkness of heartache and uncertainty forever.

They were in each other's arms, embracing in front of a forgotten cliché within Grand Central Terminal, kissing and crying like fools. Eventually they parted for air and Rachel held the open box between them.

"Which one's yours?"

Quinn wasn't sure exactly what she meant. The ring she was supposed to wear? Or the one for Rachel? She went with the latter. Picking up the ring sized to the brunette, she took the smaller girl's left hand and slid it on the appropriate finger. She turned the hand over and pressed a kiss to Rachel's palm before meeting her lips again.

"This one. This one is mine, for you. Because you're mine."

With a watery smile, Rachel took the other ring and did the same, placing it on Quinn's finger then drawing her in for a kiss that rocked her to the core. She kissed back with everything she had to give, because every piece of her belonged to the woman in her arms.

"Yours," Rachel said, breathless. Her gaze searched Quinn's. "Mine?"

Quinn nodded vigorously, green eyes gleaming. "Only yours."

Their kisses continued until the open display of their affection grew unfit for public viewing. Releasing full lips, Quinn rested their foreheads together while the tips of their noses met in tiny "eskimo kisses". She whispered against a kiss-swollen mouth, "I have a surprise for you."

"Are you serious?" Rachel tilted back, her fingers yet dancing along Quinn's nape. "Because I fail to see how _anything_ you have planned could possibly top this." She sighed, leaning up for another kiss which was given freely.

"I got us a room." The words bolted from her mouth and fair cheeks burned with bashfulness. From the darkening of Rachel's eyes, however Quinn's embarrassment was unfounded.

"Where?"

"The Carlyle."

Because thanks to the good Doctor Lopez, Princess Santana had a sky-high limit on her credit card, unlike Quinn.

"Three nights in a deluxe room plus a couple's package at the hotel's Sense Spa."

San was going to be so pissed when she discovered her American Express card was missing. Not as pissed as she'd be once the bill came, though. A minute amount of guilt niggled at her conscience. Their friend had packed a bag for Rachel and had it, along with Quinn's still packed travel suitcase, sent to their reserved room while they spent the day frolicking about the city, nicely not asking questions about how she was affording this because Quinn's financial means were obviously not too great. She was really going to owe her after this. But she'd worry about that later.

"There may or may not be champagne and strawberries waiting for us, too." The concierge didn't need to know Rachel was only twenty.

Rachel stepped back in shock then nearly wrenched the blonde's shoulder from its socket, storming down the hall by the shuttle passage and out the door to the taxi stand on the corner of 42nd Street and Vanderbilt Avenue. With her free right hand, she made something like the "O.K." sign and brought her fingers to her mouth, blowing out a piercing whistle. It was completely pointless because there were cabs all around. But it was hot as all get out.

"I didn't know you could do that," Quinn said, flabbergasted. She lost her footing while Rachel yanked open the door to one of the newer vanette taxicabs. "Why didn't I know you can do—"

"Get in the damn car, Quinn."

She did, thanks to a firm shove from the petite woman climbing in behind her and telling the driver their destination. "God you're bossy." It was half teasing, half serious.

Rachel didn't reply right away. Instead, she seated herself in Quinn's lap and weaved nimble fingers through blonde hair. "You just asked me to marry you, Quinn. It's a little late to complain about my overbearing—and yes, sometimes domineering—personality and need for validation and compliance from others in my life. You of all people should know it's better to surrender to my demands rather than fight me on certain topics."

Grinning, she slid her hands around the brunette, gliding a little lower than what was considered polite. "And you should know by now that will never happen."

They were both too stubborn.

Rachel stared at her, stroking her cheek. The air between them changed from impassioned and hurried to comfortable and leisurely. Gentle lips found Quinn's, just for a moment before breaking away again. "That's kind of why we work, huh?"

Quinn smiled. The smile that naturally overran her features every time she fell more in love with this woman. The smile that was for Rachel and Rachel alone.

"Kind of."

They melted back into each other, giving and taking and sharing kisses as the smart, shiny yellow and slightly toffee-nosed looking Nissan Evalia coasted up Madison Avenue toward Manhattan's most lavish Art Deco hotel while two well-educated, poised, disciplined, modest, modern and Manhattanized young women rode in the backseat…making out like the foolish, idiotically in love girls from backwater Allen County, Ohio they still were deep down. Quinn didn't see that ever changing.


	23. Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered

The photoshoot continues. Also, remember what Ms. Michele wore to the SAG Awards? Good.  
Glee does not belong to me. Le sigh. Unbeta'd.

* * *

Round two was a whirlwind spent standing in front of the dropscreen in various poses wearing expressions of flirtation and enticement. Rachel just finished a series of solo photos while her children had retreated to their privacy. Exhaustion and her desire to join them begged she half-ass her way through this ordeal, but she knew she couldn't. Rachel Berry was a bona fide star, and true stars gave everything to a performance. She'd been guilty of not doing so a few times in the past, as popular and as in-demand as she'd been notwithstanding, and now was the perfect opportunity to change that: her first album in more than five years was releasing next month, right when this _Vanity Fair_ spread would publish the world over. Pros and cons of restoring her celebrity status see-sawed in her brain, but needed more concentration than she possessed. Things needed to stay simple; all she had to do was get through today. Fortunately, she'd been on her own for the last hour while the in-house salon bustled back and forth from her then to Quinn hiding behind the wardrobe racks. Having the distracting blonde out of sight made it easier to focus on the job, something for which Rachel was grateful. The distance allowed her full attention to be on Andrew and his camera until it was time to pair the married women together for the last round of pictures.

As she'd changed into her final guise of the day, Andrew changed the set. A larger, black matte backdrop replaced the bleached muslin one, crafting a space not only visually darker, but giving it a luxurious ambiance as well. Originally, he'd moved the office's faux leather couch from its home underneath the windows to the foreground. Then, after emerging from behind the dressing screen and learning of his concept of an Art Deco mood, she foolishly mentioned the chaise longue in her bedroom. The older man's blue eyes lit up and she had Joshua and Daniel carry the restored antique into the office. It was more Art Nouveau than Art Deco. And the color scheme was all wrong for the intended time period, but the streamline flow of its polished walnut frame and the red crushed velvet upholstery was spot-on for the theme. Thankfully, digital editing would fix the inaccurate polychromasia with little problem and ensure the photographer's goal of romanticized nostalgia.

But stage-managed sensuousness or not, this was taking entirely too long for her liking. Quinn should be dressed by now, for goodness' sake. Clarissa had assisted Rachel with three costume changes in the time Amy, the Cougar of the Wardrobe, was dressing Quinn, and she did not welcome the delay. She wanted these people gone so they could talk, but that could only happen if Amy hurried. The actress tugged at her dress, making sure it stayed up and kept her covered. As predicted, she was still well secured by the strapless bra paired with the fitted bodice. What was it with Andrew's artistic vision? Everything she'd worn today bared her shoulders or legs. This outfit showed off both. At least the rest of her wasn't so terribly exposed. She was in her forties, and her post-baby physique wasn't as great as her pre-Ava form. Not to say she was embarrassed of her body, nor that carrying a child ravaged her figure forever. No, her abdominal muscles weren't as defined and never would be again, but her stomach was flat and toned. A lifetime of a strict exercise regimen gave her something to be proud of. Rachel may not be pretty, but her body was top notch. She had even done a few bouts of nudity in her younger years. To be clear, "younger" translated as any time before the pregnancy, because Rachel Berry hadn't begun to look anywhere near her true age until recent months. She'd last done a shower scene at the age of thirty-seven and garnered rave so-called reviews from many a men's magazine; she'd also charted on multiple lists of attractive female celebrities more than she could count throughout her career. The nudity was never gratuitous, naturally, and had to be fundamental to the story. If so, then she saw no reason to hire a body double. When Rachel Berry immersed herself into a character, she fully committed to it. Hence, producers and directors needed to provide substantial evidence for her to lose her clothing. It wasn't a problem for her, but it needed to be reasonable. She didn't do it to break in to the business, but had no real qualms about it thereafter.

Quinn did, though.

There were qualms galore each time Rachel got quasi-naked in a performance. And it wasn't as though it happened with every single project. Yet Quinn couldn't even handle it when Rachel had kissing scenes with other actors—actors! Because they were acting! It never meant anything, and any physiological response she had was not in her control. She held no jurisdiction over her body's physical reactions to filming or staging those types of scenes. All that should have mattered to her wife is that although the character was invested in it,_ Rachel_ wasn't.

Having taken drama among some general education classes her first semester of college, Quinn got a crash course in the lifestyle Rachel was training for. It helped with understanding how and why actors played all aspects of their characters' lives to preserve the artistic integrity of a script. The method and mentality of it made sense to Quinn, she always said so, stating she respected the lengths to which actors went for the sake of truth and authenticity.

That appreciation did not extend to Rachel's choices.

Initially, when the brunette strove toward honesty in a role Quinn supported her. Not, however, if it involved showing skin or tangling tongues with people who may as well have been strangers. It wasn't cheating; it was her job. Passion was vital to any good performance, and the actress refused to sacrifice such a large foundation of her craft simply because her wife pouted about it—or shouted, depending on the day.

She'd just tuned out all the ranting, the snide insinuations about co-stars, and the moping, sometimes intentionally exasperating the issue by flaunting it in search of Quinn's attention. It wasn't to hurt her, not ever. Doing that was furthest from Rachel's mind. Yes, she freely acknowledged she was self-centered though unselfconfident enough—in her true looks, more than her body—to purposely provoke such reactions from her spouse because she needed the validation. She needed to know the classic beauty she married still wanted her, still yearned for her the same way she did for Quinn. It worked, too. At first. But when her wife turned stoic and dived into work and ignored Rachel's behavior, when the brooding lines no longer marred Quinn's face, when the jealousy withered and that volcanic temper cooled to ambivalent acceptance, she projected her greatest fear with hateful accusations of infidelity. Then she'd take another role and the boys along on location with her, leaving the doctor to her work while wishing each time her wife would get on a plane and follow because maybe Quinn needed them, too. Instead, the blonde let Rachel handle her career as she saw fit because, from their very beginning, Quinn promised never to tell her no. And she didn't. Not once. No matter how many times the diva hoped her wife would object and beg her to refuse a role and stay home, Quinn never did. Because she promised not to stand in the way of Rachel's dreams.

Rachel didn't do the same.

She made demands that hurt Quinn and pushed her further away—the demands she wanted Quinn to make of _her_: stay home; don't fly out; skip work today. Yet, Rachel opted out of those very same things herself because if Quinn didn't care enough to ask, then she must not care one way or the other what Rachel did. Years of holding her wife to a standard that she personally had no intention of meeting fueled tiny sparks of arguments into wildfires until they burned themselves out. Now all that was left was smoke and ash.

Standing in front of the full length mirror created by the touchscreen panel along the wall, she hugged the loaned dressing robe tighter to her. Weary lids fell shut and her head dropped back. She was worn-out and didn't know how much more of everyone's amateurish larking about she could take.

"Hey." The timid greeting roused her from her frustration.

Rachel exhaled slowly then opened her eyes, seeing a woman over her shoulder in the mirror. Quinn. Beautiful, graceful, feminine Quinn. In a suit and tie.

Double takes weren't real life occurrences for most people. The diva wasn't most people, however. She spun around to be bombarded by the full image which was too much to process at once. She needed a moment, time to take in the whole picture. Compartmentalizing was a wonderful coping mechanism, and the bottom was always a good place to begin. So, shoes. Because Quinn had on shoes, obviously. Men's shoes?

Wingtip black and white Oxfords encased her feet, establishing the presence of a fashion stereotype associated with 1920s and '30s self-employed businessmen who made millions from their speakeasies and bootlegging operations during Prohibition. The laces hid under blacker than black trousers with freshly hemmed cuffs. No wonder Rachel had been waiting so long.

The pant legs were wide but narrowed the higher Rachel's eyes climbed, defining the womanly line of the blonde's build. Oh, she could only imagine how good Quinn's posterior must look in those slacks. A jacket was next. It looked tailored, customized to Quinn's exact proportions and hugged her so snuggly. Double-breasted, it folded across Quinn's torso in the definitive men's style of left flap over right, yet seemed shaped for a woman's curves. There were buttons, of course, twelve in total: six on each side, with the uppermost simply for show. The gorge where the wide lapels crossed was appropriately high for the 1930s' style. Therefore the revealing V of the coat was narrow, serving its function of elongating the wearer's form. The sleeves looked fitted as well. Sheathing strong arms, they stopped to reveal starched shirt cuffs pinned by rectangular links. Antiqued platinum? Brushed silver? Whatever their metal, each had an inner rectangle of a shiny black stone, likely onyx.

Brown eyes tracked long fingers brushing back flaxen strands falling over a fair skinned brow. Rachel's own fingers tingled with the craving of doing that for Quinn, then of undoing the stubbed ponytail resting above the suit collar and raking through soft hair to bring the woman's lips to hers. Quinn's head angled to the side and she awaited a response, showcasing her swan-like neck. Rachel's gaze slid along the column of a smooth throat to the plump Full Windsor knot of a necktie. The tie was pale gray, obviously meant to match the actress's dress hidden beneath her robe.

"How do I look?"

Both hope and fear flashed in those hazel eyes, and Rachel watched the tall and lean figure tense in the quiet. One hand slid into the right trouser pocket, interrupting the sharp line of the ensemble while the other tinkered with the boutonnière pinned high on the blazer's left lapel. She stepped closer to study the flower. It was fake, made from white silk with a semi-closed bud surrounded by gossamer-like petals. The bloom's trimmings were detailed but subtle: hand beaded leaves of silvery gray, a flair of goose feathers arched down to the right, three teardrop crystals gathered toward the inner circle near the bud like dewdrops, and its stem was wrapped with silver satin ribbon. The diva recognized it right away then rolled her eyes in disbelief.

"A gardenia? Really?" She was shocked the crew even had one.

Porcelain cheeks tinged with pink. "I got to pick."

"So you chose the gardenia out of how many other options?"

Quinn pursed her lips, looking somewhat confused. Recalling actions from only minutes ago should not be that hard, but Rachel graciously let the Yale graduate slide in light of the emotionally tempestuous day.

"Three more: a rose, a Calla lily, and a carnation. They all matched the tie so I just went with the one that…yeah." Nervous fingers now tugged at the knotted fabric at her throat and Quinn asked, "Do I look okay?"

Rachel's mouth opened and closed in silence. Okay? Quinn looked sexy as sin—far better than Marlene Dietrich in that iconic Hollywood glamour shot. Her voice returned with a teasing answer. "No zoot suits on the rack, Daddy-O?"

Quinn frowned. So did Rachel. It was meant to be playful, but clearly came out as mocking. What was wrong with her? She _knew_ how much her wife disliked coming off as manly, despite being furthest from it. The brunette scolded herself for being so insensitive. Quinn did not like looking like a boy. Other than the hospital scrubs of long ago, she wore pants only when they were the most practical option. But they always were the kind meant to accentuate the doctor's femininity, not take away from it. Because, growing up, Lucy Fabray had the burden of replacing the son her parents had hoped for. The Fabrays had had to redo the nursery, had to send back toys and clothes then purchase new ones, then had broken the bad news to extended family and members of their community that there'd somehow been a misinterpretation of multiple sonograms and the doctors were wrong, because Judy delivered another daughter for her husband instead of the much anticipated and already worshiped son. And because Lucy was a disappointment literally from her first breath, it was all the more important for her to make something of herself with each subsequent one. Rachel's chest seized, remembering the long nights of listening to Quinn's telling of her childhood during their young relationship. How she had to learn the things Russell would've taught his boy while only allowed to live as the darling daughter and future debutant. She was like a fragile doll who knew how to unplug a clogged sink drain when a certain curious toddler wanted to know the secrets of the garbage disposal and if it had an appetite for socks like his mama said the dryer did. But she did it while still in a dress because being anything less than feminine, no matter in what aspect of life, was forbad by the Fabray Way. She'd said to be seen as anything else made her a failure.

And Rachel just reinforced the lifelong fear of being exactly that. In her shame, she re-appraised the doctor.

The suit was handsome but Quinn was beautiful. Laura was skilled and made her up wonderfully. Her lips were coral pink to compliment the fair hue of her skin, while subtle bronze shadow painted her eyelids and combined with matte gold liner to make those hazel orbs pop in a vibrant green. Unlike Rachel's sultry look, Quinn's didn't require false lashes. The brown mascara was a richer shade than her natural color, but whatever else Laura had done to lengthen and thicken them was nothing short of brilliant. She looked magnificent and Rachel made her self-conscious by not saying so. Instead she'd skipped a real answer and called her a very masculine term, feeding into the blonde's deep-seated childhood fear of being not pretty enough. But Quinn was still the prettiest girl she'd ever seen.

"Hey." Rachel stepped closer, reaching for her wife who was already backing up. "Come on. Stop." She caught her, holding on to clenched biceps underneath soft worsted wool. _Vanity Fair_ certainly spared no expense here. Her right hand slid down the finely woven fabric until it met Quinn's left, joining them together. "Please look at me?"

Eyes dark with insecurity and humiliation ripped at her heart when their owner did as asked. Lissome as ever, Quinn didn't look the slightest bit manly now, but the truth that she felt that way was written all over those lovely features.

"Quinn," she said. Sadly, unfocused eyes looked not at her but through her. Quinn was withdrawing to dampen the pain of perceived rejection which Rachel hadn't intended at all. She tried again, moving ever nearer. The extra three inches of height afforded by her peep toe sling back heels put her right at the taller woman's level. At least these spiked stilettos were good for something other than cutting off her circulation.

"Hey," she whispered, nudging the bridge of her nose against a square chin. The immediate reaction was a sharp flinch backward, but a diffident gaze finally centered on chocolate brown eyes full of sincerity. "You look amazing, Quinn. Honestly." Her left hand moved without authorization and the backs of her fingers grazed over a smooth cheek. "You're beautiful, Luce."

Quinn's posture hardened as though bracing for an attack.

Was that was the wrong thing to say, perhaps too intimate a name to use right now? Worried Quinn would pull away again, Rachel held her hand fast and wrapped her other arm around her wife's shoulder. If the doctor would only bring her own free arm around Rachel's waist, they'd be dancing again. Quinn must have read it in the diva's eyes because that's exactly what she did, albeit spiritlessly. The fingers of her right hand played with the robe's belt loop while the ones of her left laced with Rachel's, their hands palm to palm. Like she said, dancing. Quinn's wedding band was warm against her skin.

"So…" Hesitation filled Quinn's voice. "How—how come I look like a gangster and you're in jammies?"

"I assure you, I am very much clothed underneath this," Rachel said. "And you make a very gorgeous gangster, Quinn." She wanted to lean closer into her wife, but was afraid of smudging her make-up on the self-proclaimed mobster's suit. And of being rejected.

"Just missing the hat and a Tommy Gun, huh?" The blonde's manner was relaxing but her body was still mostly rigid.

"Mmmhmm. And money sacks with dollar signs on them." Her arm tightened around Quinn's shoulder when the toying with her robe died away and a hand curled around her waist.

"Right. Can't have people getting confused and think I'm stealing dirty laundry instead of robbing a bank."

"Heavens no. That itself would be a crime. If movies have taught us anything, it's that the mafia _always_ broadcasts its unsavory dealings and illegal activities." She gave in and rested her chin on Quinn's shoulder. Technically it was on the sleeve of her robe so as not to ruin the suit, but that minute detail didn't change the fact that the couple was now cheek-to-cheek, their instinctive sway returning. She hadn't been rebuffed. Things were quiet now, and Rachel wondered how long they'd stay like this. Andrew and the rest of his cronies could take all the time they needed.

While they waited, Rachel couldn't help thinking of the rings adoring their fingers. Geoffrey's unsubtle suggestion that she put hers back on was obeyed shortly after she'd cleaned up the mess in the foyer. Before digging through her bureau for spare clothes to give Santana, she'd stood at of the vanity table in her walk-in closet, staring at her jewelry box with mild discomfort.

So often she'd taken the golden band off for rehearsals and performances, stringing it on a chain around her neck when the time came to stop being Rachel Berry and starting living the role. Afterward it'd always go on without ceremony, more of habit, really. Doing the same today was not so easy a task. She'd removed the ring for good in June. Seeing it hurt too badly. So she took it off. Took it off and offloaded it on Santana. The next week she'd been searching for a special pair of earrings before going out for Tana's birthday. Back on the gold chain necklace she found both her wedding and engagement rings winking at her under a mess of bracelets and other shiny accessories. She'd slammed the box shut, foregoing earrings altogether, and waited until the next day to berate the birthday girl. Then, while her bruised and beaten friend was indisposed in the guest bathroom today, Rachel retrieved her rings. Pawing through the box wasn't necessary. She'd known exactly where they laid among the rest of the jewelry, despite not opening the box in months.

Her thumb rubbed over the metal circles on her finger, her palm no longer resting on Quinn's upper back. As she'd returned the bands to their home, Rachel didn't reflect on their significance. She couldn't help but do so now. One was given to her on a night in late spring in the middle of a train station. The other came the day she and Quinn stood before family, friends, and a New York County Justice of the Peace for a non-religious wedding and promised each other forever.

Forever didn't last as long as people thought.

Forty-one percent of the time, forever ended in separation or divorce. It was a lower percentage than when they'd wed, but a larger ratio when factoring how many long-term committed couples simply opted out of nuptial ties. Married people were a minority in modern America. Did lasting as long as she and Quinn had count as a success? Statistically? Probably. But to Rachel? No. They failed—failed each other and failed their children.

She glanced down to her other hand linked with Quinn's, looking at the ring she'd slid on an icicle finger during their mid-December wedding. They'd been informed the heating system of the cathedral-modeled synagogue of the Angel Orensanz Center was on the fritz that whole week, but there was no way Rachel was pushing back her wedding date. Instead, they'd ended up rushing through their vows with chattering teeth while they and their guests were forced to keep their coats on. Santana bitched about the cold under her visible breath right up until the magistrate opened his mouth, but even the tough NYU law student couldn't hide her tear tracks that day. Neither bride bothered trying. Everyone was a mess afterward, all happy tears and sniffling red noses.

Another sparkle shone from Quinn's ring. It wasn't from a camera flash but from someone adjusting the lighting equipment. Darker clouds covered the already shrouded sun as the afternoon rolled in an additional storm, thus providing even less natural light than the mere overcast skies of this morning. Before she began posing as America's Sweetheart starlet—the girl-next-door now all grown up—Andrew had closed the curtains so random cracks of lightning wouldn't interfere with the room's limited luminosity. The rumbles of thunder outside strangely enhanced the dark romance of the set as a whole, and Rachel wasn't quite sure how to feel about it all.

Everything from the last twenty-four hours sailed through her mind: the fatigue of recording with Alan; the stress of psyching herself up for this photo shoot; the delayed worry of how the children were dealing with the storm and the guilt for not thinking of them sooner; the shock at finding Quinn in the house—in _her _bed; this morning's indignity of facing the doctor while knowing she had every right to judge Rachel's tardiness; the need to reach out to her estranged wife contrasting the need to retreat and fortify her heart in fear of Quinn turning around and breaking it once more; the horror of the fight, the delight at overhearing the woman's confession of love and longing; their kisses; their desire; their easy comfort; and the simplicity masking the complicated mess between them. All this was more than anyone could deal with over months and certainly too much for a single day. When Rachel tilled through the complex emotions to their nitty-gritty bases, she unearthed a handful of catch-alls. Pain. Anger. Grief. Shame. Love.

She didn't know what to do with any of it.

"Are you all right?" Quinn's breath was hot against her ear.

She shivered under the cotton robe and nodded in the affirmative. "Fine, thank you."

A hum originated in the blonde's chest and vibrated into Rachel's. "What are you thinking about?"

In a complete emotional turnabout, Rachel took offense for no logical reason. Now was the time Quinn wanted to know what was on her mind? Where was that question a year ago? Six months ago? How terrific that the doctor finally pulled her head out of a centrifuge and away from her work to ask the actress's innermost thoughts, but it was too late for that. It was too late for them. Anger overwhelmed her. They were going to get through today then go their separate ways again. Because what did she have left to offer Quinn? And what did Quinn have left to offer her? More cold nights in an empty bed? They'd had that for so long as it was. Apologies for getting on yet another plane and leaving again? They already hadn't seen each other in months. Restarting the perilous journey they'd trod for so long merely to veer off path, as they inevitably would do again, would destroy her. She was the queen of denial if self-preservation called for it, but there was no negating the truth that Rachel wasn't strong enough to cope with her wife walking away once more. Right now, their situation and its consequences were sufficient motivations for her to pull away and ignore the pang in her heart and the chill wrought by the distance between their bodies. Neither she nor Quinn possessed the capacity for anymore heartache. This had to stop. She was doing them both a favor. Right?

"What's wrong?" Quinn asked. Confusion clouded her eyes, but she didn't fight Rachel's exodus from her arms. She didn't follow, either, but the desire to do so was plain on her face.

Anger and hurt flipped over and over throughout her like a coin spinning in the air. Was it so hard for the blonde to give in and go for what she wanted? Her whole life Quinn had been about winning, never surrendering. So shouldn't she be holding tight like before and halting Rachel's departure from their embrace? Was that even what Rachel wanted now? It was earlier. She'd cuddled into her wife, needing to be near her. But she was desperate to get away and the suddenness of that feeling shocked her. She was on the threshold of a breakdown and couldn't think. It was impossible to keep a clear head around Quinn—something she'd never been able to do. Rachel may not be the most rational person in the world, but she prided herself on her proficiency of shunning accepted theories to dissect a problem to its bare bones and come to a resolution thereafter. Yet, Quinn Fabray had always presented a problem in her life. One for which she'd never found a solution.

Lucy was a friend, a legitimate friend from ballet class who'd pushed her away for reasons Rachel waited a decade to hear. Quinn the cheerleader was the parasite that ate away almost all reminders of the round girl with cherubic cheeks whom she cherished as a true companion. Rachel hadn't even recognized the popular Cheerio for who she truly was until halfway through their first year at McKinley when Sue Sylvester hijacked the PA system to announce the newest team captain and said, "Fabray". She'd sought out the girl who shared a surname with her lost friend because maybe they were related. Maybe Quinn knew what happened to Lucy. Did she move? Was she okay? Why was she gone? Then she saw her and _knew_. Their gazes met like magnets and she realized all she had left of her dear friend was the look in in those eyes, still piercing hazel but filled with new anguish and anger to replace Lucy's sadness. The message was clear: they didn't know each other. Yet, whenever they'd lock with hers, those eyes almost always indicated Quinn knew how badly Rachel was hurting, and that she was hurting, too. It was why she could never let go of the girl; they'd fallen apart as children and it broke each of them in different ways. It was why the gleek tried anything to get the cheerleader's attention in hopes they could fix it and put themselves and each other back together.

Early on, Rachel resented both sides of her now-wife for not intuitively knowing things the singer never said. For not knowing she missed the girl with the off-center nose and shy smile she knew was still inside the size two beauty queen. Because each time Quinn Fabray pulled an acclaimed classic novel from her bag all the brunette saw was the pre-teen Lucy whom she'd met outside the dance room, engrossed in L. Frank Baum's The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

Rachel honestly wasn't aware there was a book about her second favorite movie until she found a classmate quietly reading, waiting for the first day of lessons to begin. Over-excited, the young brunette had sat down next to the girl with glasses and pleaded for the other girl to read it aloud. After that, Rachel was always early to ballet, hopeful her new friend would get there with enough time before class because Lucy was a great reader. And she knew big words, too. Smart words. She'd taught them to Rachel who then employed them throughout high school, seeking her friend by means of language forgotten. It took years with many misguided attempts at reconnection, but they found each other again. Somehow. The brunette wished she could remember what happened, _precisely_ what changed two teenaged adversaries back into innocent girls who once again bonded over the kind of literature Rachel didn't bother with outside of academia. During the early summer days between their junior and senior years of high school, Quinn would read to her. They'd built a rapport on a mountain of books and words on a page. Then one day their lips met over a dog-eared copy of The Odyssey by Homer and shook the foundation of their tentative friendship. Quinn panicked. Rachel panicked. Things got complicated after that.

Rachel flinched internally. When had they ever _not_ been complicated?

"Hot damn, Q." The awed statement was followed by a slow, appreciative whistle.

Santana was back. Of course.

Rachel didn't know whether to be grateful for her friend's timing or annoyed. Didn't she have better things to do than continue interrupting the photoshoot? She swore the woman had a job outside of being the family's watchdog. Tana wandered into the room, her stare never wavering from Quinn. Years of friendship should have granted her the surety of knowing the lawyer's attentiveness was not out of lust or attraction. Yet thoughts to the contrary assaulted her mind and the desire to stake her claim on her wife crashed through her. Warring emotions created a tug-o-war between her brain and her heart was enough to make her want to steal hold of her wife and hide her where no one, maybe not even she, could reach her. Rachel wasn't as sure now that she wanted Quinn as she'd been during the lunch break, but she was certain she didn't want anyone else to have her. The mere idea of it conjured the image of a tower wherein she could lock the doctor away from all the world, the approaching Santana Lopez included. She settled for placing herself between two former cheerleaders.

Santana didn't have to be a lawyer nor her best friend to deduce exactly what Rachel was doing, but she didn't comment on what was illogical suspicion. Which was the smart thing to do because Rachel wasn't positive how she'd react to ridicule right now. It was fair to say it wouldn't be pretty.

Clarissa ruined any chance of expounding upon that theory. "Ms. Berry? Dr. Fabray?"

"Whatchu want, L'Oreal?" That particular grin on Tana's face was rarely seen outside of bars and bedrooms.

Though visibly fatigued, the younger woman parried. "I'm sorry, but did I give the impression that I was speaking to you, La Bamba?"

Rachel's teeth all but sliced through her inner cheek in effort to not laugh while poor Quinn was in the midst of a sudden and horrid coughing fit.

"_Ay_," Tana leered to the point where even Rachel felt dirty. "We can dance anytime you want to, _mamí._"

Quinn's coughing ceased abruptly. Clarissa's jaw clenched and her violet eyes would have vaporized Santana if it were possible. With self-possession worthy of a saint, she looked to Rachel and addressed her with an unaffected, tight voice.

"Andrew's ready for you." Then, thrusting a black hat at Quinn, the woman forged past Santana and out of the room.

Rachel was impressed with her form and presentation. She would have done better, but it was a nicely executed storm out. However, Clarissa _was_ needed on set. It was the hair dresser's sole purpose for being here. "Where's she going?"

"Maybe to get food?" The doctor cleared her throat, recovering from her hacking laugh-suppressant. Her voice was thoughtful and she frowned. "She didn't eat anything during lunch."

"No wonder she's such a bitch. I just thought she needed her hippie crunchy granola world rocked, not an actual granola bar," Santana said, thumb scrolling over the screen of her phone now in hand.

"San," Quinn gave a long-suffering sigh. "Never mind. It's nothing I haven't said before and that you've never listened to. Someday, S… some fucking day," she muttered. That tone was familiar. It was the same one whenever the doctor came home after losing a patient. It was the sound of someone who'd done all she could and had no option other than accepting that some people just can't be saved. She stalked toward the set, shaking her head and not looking back.

Santana brushed the whole thing off like a game—as always—and clicked her tongue at Rachel. The bravado of her smirk was nothing but a front. Tana's inability and unwillingness to access and delve into her feelings constantly evoked Rachel's irritation and sympathy. The lawyer's features hardened upon spotting the borderline pity but she didn't tackle it directly. She never did. "Ain't you got a comeback to make, Sunset Boulevard? Better lose the housecoat." And she left, cell phone to her ear and her usual swagger nowhere in sight.

Knowing the woman was right, Rachel sighed. She steeled herself and turned toward the set. With momentary regret for dragging her roommate to see that musical, Rachel huffed at the analogy. She wasn't really a Norma Desmond, right? No, of course not. She unbelted the robe and slipped it off her shoulders, letting it slither down her arms and past the bracelets on her wrists as she gathered it behind her back. The action pushed her chest forward, inadvertently, and she noticed the gawking stare of green eyes as her back arched further. Her wife couldn't look away. It made sense: the dress really was something.

Grecian inspired, the corseted gown wrapped over one shoulder and around her torso to fit every curve. There weren't many but what she did have was enviable and she knew it. The hemline of the flowing tulle skirt feathered to the floor, creating the hint of a train. Straight from Versace and beyond decadent, it was a cocoon of gossamer fabric made all the more sumptuous by the looks it garnered from Quinn. Oh. _That's _why Quinn was staring. The perusal of those wide eyes made it difficult to not put the gown's most risqué feature to good use.

A high cut slit was hidden in the satiny folds as long as she stood up straight. That was an easy fix. The brunette cocked a hip and shifted her weight to the right, her left leg peeking out a little bit. She convinced herself it was for her own comfort since she'd been standing in for so long in stilettoes and not at all for her wife's viewing pleasure.

Quinn's breath hitched and Rachel rejoiced.

Why was she doing this? She bit her lip, contemplating her motive. Because she wanted Quinn to want her again. Because she wanted to see what the sometimes detached woman would do. Because she wanted Quinn to see what she ignored for years and had left behind. Because maybe she felt a little vindictive. Sure, they'd been affectionate and playful today, but Rachel was afraid to trust it. But she could test it.

She was subtle at first. Really, only her toned calf was revealed. The blonde may be uncommonly gorgeous but Rachel did have her moment of seductive beauty if done up just right. Now was the perfect moment. She pointed her toe in an imperceptible stretch and smoothed out the robe with faked obliviousness. The dress parted like a curtain, exposing only as high as her upper thigh. If there was anything Rachel was unequivocally vain about, it was her legs. Years ago she'd had Quinn wrapped around them—around her finger, she meant. Figuratively speaking, of course…and sort of not figuratively speaking. She wanted to see if she still did, and if the more literal turn of that phrase would prove true later on.

From the whine escaping Quinn's throat, it might.

A tightening low in her belly shocked her. Memories of velvety warmth sheathing her fingers as she explored her wife's most intimate depths flooded her mind. Anymore dwelling on it and she'd surely drown in the desperation to feel it again. She was barely treading water as it was. Shaking her head, the platinum drop earrings she wore tickled against her neck, eliciting goosebumps. This attempt at enticement backfired: _she_ shouldn't be the one worked up. She shouldn't be a lot of things right now, though. She was classifiably unstable today.

Desire she was unprepared to face surfaced in darkening hazel eyes. Rachel brought the dressing gown to her chest and straightened, hiding hardening nipples and the leg foolishly flashed in flirtation. Impulsivity was a wicked master Rachel Berry would never overcome.

And certainly she couldn't be expected to resist reckless behavior when Quinn was now practically glued to her front, having taken quick steps nearer. Inches. Mere inches separated them, and the heat of Quinn's body burned hers despite their layers of clothing. The fedora Clarissa handed over before leaving was on her head, slanting over her left eye and turning doctor from dapper to dangerous.

"Hi," Rachel whispered, not trusting her voice with anything more. She watched emerald green eyes give her a quick up-and-down then saw the lazy sweep of a pink tongue over barely parted lips. Barraged by arousal, the brunette expelled a whimper. It climbed in pitch as agile fingers tugged away the material between them and dropped the robe to the ground. No more barriers. Rachel sucked in a trembling breath and let it out deliberately. Swooning into her wife's arms would be unprofessional.

Quinn's gazed bored into hers as the distance separating them disappeared. Another lick of those lips had Rachel's knees buckling but it was the rich timbre of that alto voice rasping through her ears that dropped her.

"Nice dress."

Rachel would later blame the high heels for her forward tumble. Then credit Quinn for catching her.


	24. Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered 2

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Not like this.

Not again.

Not so soon after the kisses in the kitchen and famous Motown songs lingering in her ears with only her heartbeat marking time. Yet there she'd been, pressing into a familiar body she never wanted to let go of, or to let go of her, gripping the narrow lapels of her wife's jacket for dear life twenty minutes ago.

She'd held on, keeping herself pulled tight against Quinn. It wasn't a difficult task, either, and she couldn't think of another place she'd rather have been in that moment. Except alone. Yes, Rachel much preferred it'd have been just the two of them in this office without the watchful eyes of _Vanity Fair_'s fine and capable interlopers witnessing Rachel's misstep and how Quinn saved her from hitting the ground. At least her foot hadn't popped like some damn cliché romantic comedy, because really, nothing about their situation was funny. She'd teetered all the more; over-correcting for her forward momentum thus tipping back. Her hands had unintentionally jerked the taller woman down. Closer. But Quinn's reflexes were superb and Rachel found herself enclosed in her wife's arms, rescued from landing on her ass. The suddenness of their movements and the last-second acquirement of acrophobia spiked her heart rate. From the increased breathing above her, she'd gathered that Quinn, too, recently developed a fear of Rachel falling. A dilemma then presented itself: by saving her from hitting the floor, Quinn had ensured the plummet of Rachel's willpower to resist her own longing. All reluctance then crashed and burned in the fire behind hazel eyes.

The hands around her had squeezed and raised her upward while her wife's mouth lowered to meet hers halfway. Then one of them moaned. The diva hadn't been sure whom it was, but when Quinn's tongue entered the mix the source of the sound was evident. Her ears had relished Quinn's moan as much as her mouth savored the flavor of their kiss.

Then reality set in once more. Just as she'd been about to give in, about to say to hell with it all and kiss her wife the way she needed to, Andrew blindly interrupted and began posing them this way and then that. Nearly half an hour later he was still stealing their time together—preserving it in pixels to be touched up and perfected later on.

He wanted "subdued sexy." The goal was showing Rachel Berry as an approachable everyday woman while still being the untouchable, unattainable temptress celebrity demanded she be. Having her spouse as her counterpart for this added to the dynamic of being mother, wife, and strangely enough, a sex symbol. And having an especially gorgeous wife who looked equally untouchable didn't hurt selling that image, either.

However, said wife was obviously uncomfortable. Be it Amy's wardrobe drivebys or Laura's numerous intrusions, powder brush at the ready to get rid of some invisible shine on the doctor's cheeks or constantly adjusting the fedora so it didn't shadow Quinn's face—all while ignoring Rachel—was putting the older woman on edge.

And it raised Rachel's hackles each time, along with the urge to lay claim to her wife in front of all these strangers so the redhead would get a clue and leave Quinn alone. She wished Clarissa were here. Quinn managed to stay cool under Laura's stares and flirting, but it was clear she'd felt more relaxed around the missing hair dresser. The green-eyed monster living inside the diva did not ignore the interaction and glances between the doctor and the stylist in the kitchen, but it was a moot point when she remembered exactly how Quinn looked at Clarissa: the same way she looked at Beth.

Beth was both daughter and friend to the older blonde. Their resemblance was uncanny, too. Quinn came from impressively strong genetics, and Joshua and Beth looked as much like her as she did Judy. More so, actually. It was subtle until their images were side by side, but then it was irrefutable. Sort of how Ava was practically Rachel's twin, only thirty-eight years younger. Distant friends and acquaintances had wondered if Rachel and Quinn finally succumbed to the insanity of genetically designing babies when Ava was born, then all the more as she grew. Phenotypical development had gone the opposite way for the older brunette, however. Rachel bore no likeness to her birth mother until adolescence—as she learned much later in her life, once she and Shelby were able to see each other as individuals with similar features and somewhat common interests instead of lost extensions of one another, like phantom limbs. Quinn and Beth, strangely enough, had it easier it seemed.

Quinn Fabray had a baby at sixteen whom she loved so much that she gave her up to someone who could raise her without the hardships faced by many teenaged mothers everywhere. Throughout the pregnancy she took care of herself because she loved her baby. Then she looked at her little girl one last time before signing away her rights as a parent. Doing that did more damage to Quinn than anyone could have foreseen or that she would ever admit. But it was best for Beth. Even senior year when a tortured and woebegone Quinn schemed to get her daughter back, she stopped once Rachel pointed out to her girlfriend that it would only hurt Beth in the long run. Quinn let go. Again. And done it out of love, no matter how miserable it made her. And yes, Rachel, too, hurt greatly in admitting that Shelby was the best option for Beth when she would never be an option for Rachel herself.

To this day, she and Shelby Corcoran remained on friendly but sometimes strained terms. She wasn't Rachel's mother. Nor was she a grandparent to the Fabray-Berry children. And Rachel's own relationship with Beth was one not of an older sister, thank goodness, but as a step-mother. Beth had no concrete grasp of Rachel as a sibling but as her birth mother's girlfriend, then wife on the day she shyly wandered down the aisle as the most adorable flower girl ever to grace the earth. Then Beth became a big sister. One who graduated college before her half-brother officially became a teenager, was now building her own life in Hawaii and living with a very nice competitive surfer, and still visited as often as she could. One who sent gifts the same way Rachel and Quinn had when birthdays or holidays couldn't be attended. One who volunteered babysitting services whenever she came to town in order to give her other mothers time together without the distraction of children underfoot. One who was loved and treated by both women like the daughter she was.

Outsiders rarely understood the dynamics of the Fabray-Berry clan (which clearly included relatives of choice, as well as blood), but so what? Their family made sense to them and that's what counted. Still, Shelby did raise a good woman. And Rachel liked to think Beth's generosity of spirit and selfless nature were just as genetic as her hazel eyes and wide smile. Because when freed from all the anger and hurt of her youth, Quinn was those things, too.

And it seemed as though that side of Quinn came out in full force with Clarissa. Despite not feeling threatened by or worried about it, Rachel was certainly curious.

"Can we get a kiss?" Andrew asked, too preoccupied with changing cameras than with the way Rachel's eyes bugged at his question.

"Beg pardon?" Quinn shot back.

"Oh, nothing major." He looked up at them, motioning for the two women to pose facing each other, standing off center of the chaise. "Just a quick stage kiss. The magazine wants at least one."

Hadn't he already caught them in a kiss before the whole thing began, when she was sitting on the floor with Ava in her lap? He probably wanted more in case she or Quinn vetoed it on account of the presence of their children, she thought. Rachel conceded. He should've gotten one of her dipped back then. However, Andrew wanted a stage kiss and what they'd shared in that moment was the furthest thing from staged. Still, her contract with _Vanity Fair _had certain terms. They wanted a kiss, then that's what they'd get. Hopefully the blonde agreed.

Taking a deep breath and a step closer, Rachel reached up and cupped smooth cheeks to angle Quinn's face toward hers. "Okay?" she asked.

The doctor nodded, hesitant. "Okay."

It was innocent at first, just a quick press of lips, but when tentative hands landed on her hips, the actress sighed and leaned in, thoroughly committed to her role. She opened her mouth just enough to capture Quinn's bottom lip, suckling it gently, and one arm came about her waist, holding her closer. What had started as a realistic but detached stage kiss, sparked into something very, very real as she coaxed Quinn's tongue out to play. A tiny mewl slipped out when that lithe body was suddenly flush with hers and a hand moved to the back of Rachel's neck in case the blasphemy of breaking character crossed her mind. To prove her dedication Rachel released Quinn's face and toyed with the bothersome necktie and popped the button on the high collar hiding a slender, pale throat. Feeling Quinn's smile, Rachel then opened the suit coat and buried her hands into its warmth. It sent a tingle down her spine and she lost all pretense of acting and just let it happen. She was kissing the woman she married, why shouldn't she enjoy it?

They broke away for air but it didn't last long. She barely got a breath in before Quinn's hold tightened and the taller woman swooped in for another kiss, the long fingers of her other hand still woven through dark brown hair. Rachel melted into her wife and tried like hell to remember that this kiss was strictly for show. But then those fingers abandoned her hair and skimmed over the bare skin of her shoulder and down her arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake and the actress was lost. She loosed a moan and deepened the kiss, sinking into Quinn.

Her arms trapped Quinn all the more. Quinn only chuckled into the kiss and took off the fedora, using it to block them from the camera lens and the prying eyes in the room. It defeated the purpose of kissing in front of a camera, but the diva so didn't care. Especially since this kiss was quickly turning more and more R-rated by the minute.

"Like I said, a whole new generation of women are going to jump the fence to get to you two."

Rachel deflated and ended the kiss while Quinn slapped the her hat down to her side and puffed out her cheeks with an exasperated breath. Peripherally, Rachel saw Laura lick her lips and wondered if her reputation could afford firing another of _Vanity Fair_'s employees. She looked back to Quinn in time to watch the swift rise of a light brown eyebrow. It cut a sharp angle toward the ceiling both in silent question and warning. The brunette's eyes rolled before following the long strides taking the redhead to the other side of the room. Laura's feet crossed at the ankle as she leaned against the office's impromptu styling station and folded her arms over her chest.

"Converts a plenty. Swear to God."

Despite the stiffening of her wife's body, the annoyed grumble Rachel heard was not Quinn's. Nor was it her own. She unsteadily popped up to her tip toes, using the taller woman for balance. It was unnecessary since the stilettos gave her enough height to see over Quinn's shoulder as it was, but she liked the increased closeness it provided. The distraction of Clarissa's arrival in the doorway was fortunate because Rachel couldn't guarantee she could hold Quinn back if the noble doctor was feeling chivalrous and decided to defend their honor as a couple. She couldn't say she'd try all that hard to do so, either.

Although puffy and red-rimmed, violet eyes managed to narrow at Laura. Had Clarissa been crying? The rough timbre of her voice hinted toward that conclusion. "Can't you find something better to do with your time than flappin' your gums like a fool?"

"Any suggestions?" Laura smirked in the most lascivious way possible. Not even Santana could look so...disgusting.

Clarissa sighed in surrender, sitting down in the folding canvas chair next to the make-up artist as opposed to distancing herself from further verbal molestation. Poor girl. First Santana and now Laura. Did assholes just hit on her wherever she went?

"Just try to keep your foot out of your damned mouth."

"Or my fist."

The sharp aroma of Asian spices piqued the diva's nostrils. Santana closed the door without a noise and prowled into the room exactly like the protective and possessive panther she was…but with a bag of take-out under one arm. One would expect the paper bag to crinkle with every move but the dark-skinned woman's steps toward the stylists were so slow and stealthy Rachel would swear Santana had supernatural powers.

Quinn pivoted the both of them around as contrived confidence reinforced Laura's body, but it was plain to see fear taking over those blue eyes.

"Here's the deal, Red. You can play nice or you can get tossed from the game. I mean that literally. So here's some legal advice, completely pro bono because there's no chance in Hell you could afford my consultation fees and I'm feeling generous. Start respecting not only those two hot ass women over there, but also _every_one else in this goddamned room, or, watch me fine comb your contract for _any_ loophole that'd justify termination. You're a big girl. Surely you can behave in a polite and professional manner just like each of your coworkers has done today. Well, except for Billy." Tana frowned in false commiseration, then cast a saccharine smile on the woman who stood half a head taller than she. "Pity he had to go home, idin'it?"

Wearing dark sunglasses, Rachel's black spandex gym clothes, and pink sneakers with a matching pink fleece turned dark red from the rain, and moisture dotting her forehead, Santana Lopez never looked more terrifying. Truly. Not once. Santana was scary in general and petrifying when provoked. But this level of intimidating? When not about safeguarding the children? Rachel had never seen it before.

Santana came closer to the redhead and leaned in, conspiratorial. "Worse, poor Billy almost fell down the stairs on his way outside." She laughed, friendly but feigned. "I was kidding about the fist thing, by the way. I'm a pacifist. Fighting isn't really my thing."

The sunglasses came off as smoothly as the lie rolled off the lawyer's tongue. Her black eye had swelled to enormous proportions and the tape on her nose was now obvious to the stylists who'd been in the house and very much heard the fight between Quinn and Santana but hadn't commented on it. Clarissa, and maybe Amy, too, had to be responsible for Laura's silence on the matter. Santana grinned with an indulgent nod of her head. "Most days."

The room morphed into a powder keg and Rachel was averse to see what it would take to ignite Tana's temper.

"What's in the bag, S?" Quinn attempted to douse the kindling tension.

Not breaking the stare down with Laura, Santana thrust her chin over her shoulder and answered. "Thai."

Tana hated Thai food.

"Huh?" Good, at least Quinn was just as confused as Rachel.

"I was still hungry. Not so much anymore since they fucked up my order." Santana finally looked at them.

Hungry after the massive burger she ate? Not a chance. But, from the nervous body language coming from her long time friend, Rachel got an inkling of what was going on.

"Oh?" She prompted, slyly nudging Quinn. "How so?"

That one good eye rolled before Santana put the sunglasses back on. "They made the whole thing vegetarian and without peanut sauce. What fuckin' Thai restaurant does that?"

None that Rachel could think of unless such an order was specifically placed. Besides, the Santana Lopez she knew would not have stood for such an oversight, if it were really made. And judging from the logo on the bag, this restaurant would never do that. Because Rachel Berry had a standing call-in to this particular establishment and never would they have sent a delivery to her house without triple-checking the order. "Yet, you kept it."

The other woman all but growled her next words. "Yeah. Figured since I lost my appetite and already paid for it anyway I'd just give it to you since you're, like, obsessed with this stuff."

"That's very considerate of you—but there's no way I can eat right now. We have to finish this, right Andrew?"

The photographer stared dumbly, entirely out of place.

"Sorry, Tana, but you're going to have to get rid of it. It'll get cold while we do this and you know how I dislike eating re-heated Thai food; it never tastes as good." Lies. She'd eat that stuff frozen in the middle of Antarctica.

Quinn bumped her. Maybe she oversold that one.

"Fine. Since these fuckers already ate…" Looking around the room in pretense, Santana took care to settle on Clarissa last. Rachel was so proud of her use of dramatic pause. She'd learned well from the Tony winner. "What about you, Vidal Sassoon? Want some of this—the food, I mean?"

That last part was like a childish outburst, eager. It mostly negated the light-hearted name calling. Rachel leaned against Quinn, wondering how Santana could be so sweet and such an ass at the same time.

Now dry, violet eyes studied the lawyer. Although suspicious, it was fairly clear the dark haired woman was also hungry. Rachel empathized. The smell of the Thai food lured her closer and she realized the few bites of pizza earlier were not enough to fill her stomach. If Clarissa wasn't going to eat it, Rachel called dibs.

Clarissa rested her elbow on the arm of the chair and her cheek in her hand. She looked at the stock-still lawyer who was trying to give nothing away. Her gaze drifted to the take-out bag then back to Santana's face. "There's really no meat?"

"Not a moo or a cluck or an oink to be had. Unfortunately," Tana grouched, squirming under further scrutiny. "Look, you up for a free lunch or not, Clairol?"

The younger woman yielded a quick smile then reined it back. She stood, stepping close to Santana and naïvely trying to use her height to some kind of advantage. "Growing up I was taught there's no such thing as a free lunch."

"We can work out a payment plan if you'd like." Santana somehow managed to say that without looking like a lech.

Rachel bit back a giggle but Quinn bristled at their flirting. The doctor needed to lighten up. For years Tana refused serious relationships despite Rachel's prodding. However, the last few months had changed Rachel's perspective on their friend's approach to such things. Happily ever after wasn't real, no matter how much she'd believed in and still wished for the contrary. So maybe it wasn't so bad to lay off their friend and let her have her fun, live as she saw fit. She always thought Santana needed something meaningful, deep. But with the life Tana had had and the things that'd happened, well, Rachel no longer saw the point of denying Tana any chance of being happy, even if only for a night or two. And above all, happiness is what she wanted for her dear friend. Besides, Santana and Clarissa were adults. If they could get over themselves and look past their differences maybe they'd get a fling out of this.

"I'm sure." Clarissa unknowingly caught the actress's attention along with Santana's. "Okay Sotomayor, hand it over."

The lawyer beamed at the name. Having someone finally throw back seemed beyond exciting to her. She looked all out charmed by it and Rachel decided to give them a final push.

"Take it downstairs, Tana. You know there's no food in the office. " That wasn't exactly untrue. But it provided an excuse to get the potential... whatevers they may, be out of here.

With that, the two black haired women left the room, Rachel watching them go with a smile. Until she realized her hair stylist was gone. Again. And it was all her doing.

"Why did you do that?" Quinn asked.

"Get rid of Clarissa before her duties were completed? I really don't know." She should've thought that one out better.

The blonde shook her head. "No, I mean push them together like that. What was that about?" Quinn's whole demeanor changed and it wasn't just from the crude comments from Laura. Was it because Rachel finally gave up on forcing their friend into a lifestyle she didn't want?

Her face took on an expression of utter confusion. Since when was Quinn actively against Santana's self-described womanizing? "I didn't realize it was suddenly a bad thing to do."

"Well it is," the reply was hissed out between clenched teeth.

"I don't understand. They have serious chemistry and it's obvious Tana likes her."

"Exactly. It might be more than a hit-it-and-quit-it for her. They'll..." Quinn sighed, weary, and wandered away from her, throwing the hat on the chaise. "What am I saying? San will screw it up soon enough."

Rachel knew a fight when she saw it coming. As much as her mind didn't want it, her body couldn't wait to get rid of all this tension. If it took a fight to do that, so be it. She'd held her own against Quinn for almost all her life, not even a divorce would change that. _That_ was the reason they were separated.

"Andrew, let's take a break."

"Ms. Berry, there isn't time fo—"

"There's time," she said, cold and unquestionable.

The old man got the hint and ushered everyone out of them room then high-tailed it as fast and professionally as possible.

Alone with her wife, Rachel came to their friend's defense. "Must you always sell her so short?"

"Good point. She's slightly taller than you."

The diva was all too familiar with Quinn's knack for redirecting through sarcasm. She chose to rise above it. "You're not making sense. Where are you going with all this?"

"She'll sabotage it before it gets serious, as usual, and end up hurting yet another nice and unsuspecting girl because she... Look, everyone would just be better off if those two didn't waste their time on something that has nothing in it but heartbreak." Quinn had no right to be saying these things—things that were hitting too close to home.

"Oh, because you're so wise and all-knowing about relationships and heartbreak, what with your track record?"

Quinn whirled around and stalked toward her. The blonde's cheeks were pink, her jaw tight. They were toe to toe, at the same height and directly eye level. Neither was looking down on the other, but Rachel never felt so small as she did right now. Not because of the hurt in her wife's hazel eyes, but because she put it there. Why were they even fighting about this?

"Quinn..."

"You're right." Quinn's voice growled, "Maybe twenty-five years with the same person boils down to nothing in the end, too." She jerked the necktie, pulling the knot farther from her collar, retreating.

Rachel's chest collapsed at the loss of her heart to her throat. "I didn't mean—"

"But you said it."

How many times had they done this to each other? How many times had they said things they didn't mean? And why couldn't they stop?

Anger took over Quinn's whole body as she ripped off the jacket and threw it at the desk, pacing. "So let me say this: those two are a bad idea. If they sleep together and get it over with, fine. But don't you dare try and push San into something more like you always do. Leave it alone this time."

The blonde finally wrenched the silk knot free, but let the tie string about her neck and over her front then turned away, resting her palms flat on the desk and hunching her shoulders, head bowed. The high waist of the trousers were held by Y-backed suspenders. Seeing how authentic _Vanity Fair_'s costuming department was in dressing models for photo-shoots had Rachel wondering what kind of undergarments Quinn was wearing. Rachel's mind fogged at the thought and at the sight of how melancholy and dark Quinn looked. And how sexy she _shouldn't_ find it. This always happened when they argued. They antagonized each other pushing well-used buttons, then fought it out or fucked it gone, uncouth as it was to say.

"Why?" Rachel forced herself back into the verbal row. Quinn had no idea how her opinion on the matter had changed and what made her assume Rachel would do...exactly what she'd always done when Santana got involved in anything more than a one-night-stand? She didn't want to fight about this. She didn't want to fight about anything. But, determined and relentless to a fault, she couldn't stop her question. "If they end up becoming something more, what harm will it be? Who knows? This could be exactly what Santana needs so what is your prob—"

"Because she's ten weeks!" Quinn didn't yell yet her voice filled the empty room and anchored Rachel where she stood. The doctor turned around and leaned against the mahogany desk. "Clarissa's ten weeks, Rachel."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Before Quinn could answer, comprehension dawned. Ten weeks. Pregnant. Clarissa was pregnant. Fear and worry flooded every pore. Quinn was right. Tana couldn't.

"Get rid of her."

That golden brow wrinkled in disbelief. "You can't fire anoth—"

"I meant Santana. Send her away," Rachel said, fully embracing her wife's reasoning now. "Tell her to take the kids for the night or something because we need time to talk."

Quinn laughed, rueful. "Ten minutes ago that wouldn't have been a lie. But no," her head tipped to face the ceiling before hazel eyes came down to rest on Rachel. "I think it's best I leave after this and, and go back."

She didn't say "home". And Rachel was never more glad for it. Because if Quinn left, wherever she went wouldn't be home.

The brunette approached Quinn slowly. Her hands curled around the suspenders but didn't pull. "You don't have to. You could stay."

"I can't. Not after... everything." Quinn swallowed, but her words still carried a type of grating, wet quality. Like tears.

Like the tears Rachel was trying to hold back.

She pressed into her wife, who then sagged against her. Her face burrowed into the pale neck she'd bitten and kissed and licked and loved for years. Where she'd cried so many times and was trying not to do again.

A light blinked from the modern control panel inserted in the top corner of the desk. Rachel sighed. Joshua was green, Daniel was orange, and Ava was blue. And now, a blue light was flashing in every room in the house, alerting all inhabitants of the princess's summons. Both mothers were slow to act, however due to Ava's tendency of rolling over and smacking the touch-call on her nightstand while sleeping. It didn't last long, either, shutting off before she or Quinn could respond over the housecom. Curious. Quinn reached over and tapped the panel twice, bringing up a holo-feed of their daughter sitting up in bed. The hologram expanded as Santana entered the room and sat next to the child.

"Hey. What's good, _mi negrita_?" The question carried over the com as Tana affectionately called her niece her "dearest little dark one."

Rachel's hands tightened about Quinn's suspenders. Watching this hurt. Hurt her for Santana's sake. But she couldn't look away.

"I'm thirsty. Where's Mama?"

"Mama's working, _bebé_." Santana pulled a bottle of water from the pouch in her fleece, along with one of Ava's vitamin shakes. She certainly came prepared. Ava chose the shake and downed a healthy amount of it while her mothers watched on.

"Whens she done?"

"Soon. What do you say?"

Ava answered dutifully enough. "Thank you, _T__ía_."

"You're welcome. Are you hungry?"

Although it was after four o'clock and she should be, Ava shook her head no. "_Me voy a mimil."_

She wanted to go back to sleep?The mothers watched on, listening to the rest of the conversation between aunt and niece and seeing the milky vitamin drink being chased by the bottle of water, then Santana laying their daughter back down. The miniature hologram showed brown-skinned hands drawing circles on each other's palms and small smiles. It was a lullaby game Tana taught the children before they could speak, and Rachel was pretty sure her sons would still be able to sing it just as well as Ava was now.

"_Ah bien_, Ava. You sing so pretty."

"I know."

The child's answer made Rachel smile, and Quinn hummed in a loving way. "Just like her Mama, so sure of herself."

"Like her Mommy, too." Rachel tried for eye contact but no luck.

"Not anymore." Quinn sounded so tired. So broken. "I don't know if I ever was, Rach. I never felt like I was enough."

Rachel ached to tell Quinn she was enough. She was so much enough that she was necessary, she was vital, she was everything Rachel needed in her life. She was...Quinn. And all Rachel needed to get by was Quinn.

But the words weren't there. Not anywhere. Choking on her cowardice, the brunette instead turned to watch Ava pat the mattress and gesture Santana closer, just like she'd done to Rachel last night. And like Rachel had, Santana complied and lied down. The two were quiet. So quiet Rachel thought the sound feed was lost. The sight of Ava reaching for the sunglasses on Tana's face and frowning at the horrible black eye as it was revealed made her wince. Still, the lawyer was silent, letting her niece look on as she would. Until Ava leaned forward and kissed the bruising flesh then nodded like she'd just performed a miracle.

"All better."

"_Sí, mi amor_. All better."

"Now it's song time."

Rachel blinked away the wetness in her eyes. She heard Quinn's sniffle then tuned in on the rest of the conversation.

"Pssh. Is that a polite way to ask?"

Ava sighed like Atlas just handed over the celestial sphere and she felt very put out by it. "_¿Tia, cantará a mí, porfi?_"

Santana chuckled, as did the two mothers in the office one floor below. "What song would you like to hear?"

"Umm. The mountain song? No. No, my summer song." That was a nod no one could argue with, not even a stone-cold corporate attorney like Santana Lopez.

Tana grinned, big and radiant. Rachel pressed her cheek against Quinn's shoulder and closed her eyes against its brilliance, in spite of being via hologram.

Ava curled into her aunt's side, finding long thick hair to wind her fingers in.

"Summertime, and the livin' is easy..."

The actress smiled despite the pain and guilt ravaging her insides on so many levels. The raw, gritty quality of her friend's voice lent itself to the old Gershwin aria. Blues and old jazz were staples of Santana's music collection and she sang it all so well. Like she'd done during college, occasionally singing in clubs on nights she wasn't tending bar. Singing to the children, though, meant sometimes altering the lyrics to something less suggestive on certain songs. Sometimes, however, she changed the words just for the hell of it.

"Your ma's are rich, and your _Tia's_ good lookin'... so hush, little _bebé_. Don't you cry."

Soft lips brushed over Rachel's temple as Quinn's hands finally left the desk top and encircled her waist. The shorter woman released the elastic cotton braces and wrapped her own arms around her wife, squeezing just as hard as she was squeezing back her tears.

Their lull didn't last long. The feed died as Santana reset the system on her way out, looking back on Ava with a smile.

"She would've been a great mom."

"Really great."

"Like you."

"Like _you_."

It didn't take long for brown and hazel eyes to meet, or for lips. Their grips on each other became as desperate as their kisses. Eventually they had to part but didn't stray from one another. A tear beaded on the end of a tawny eyelash before falling to an ivory cheek. Rachel kissed it away, but more followed. Too many to drink down, too much pain to swallow.

Rachel didn't know what else to do. So she just...held on.


	25. Save The Children 1

**Title**: Save The Children  
**Author**: Frensayce  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Pairing**: Rachel/Quinn  
**Disclaimer**: Glee is not mine, but this series is.  
**Spoilers**: Everything, future. Faberry in their forties.  
**Summary**: Love Enough. Dr. Quinn, Medicine Momma to rescue.

Your reviews and favorites and follows are overwhelming. Thank you so much for all the support and feedback! It definitely helps motivate me :)

* * *

Quinn collapsed on the bed in exhaustion. Everything hurt. Her mind. Her heart. Her body. Even her soul ached. She was just too tired to deal with real life anymore. Today was full of reminders of what she'd had and stupidly lost. Not lost. Left. Walked out on. Away from. She was the villain in her own life story and she wasn't sure if that was entirely fair. It wasn't as though she was the only one who screwed up during their marriage. Except that she was the one whose failures were far more noticeable. Probably far more detrimental in the long run, too. She felt there were more things for which she needed to be forgiven than she'd ever need to forgive. Dr. Coe's opinion was a little different. He said Quinn was blaming herself too much. Said she was taking on things for which Rachel was just as at fault. Because the failure wasn't in what they did, it was not fixing it and healing, together. It sounded reasonable, but Quinn never fully demolished the pedestal on upon which she'd placed Rachel so many years ago and didn't have it in her to smear her wife with criticism so extreme. How could she? Rachel Berry was the greatest person she'd ever met. And the woman she loved. The woman she'd always love. The woman she lost.

She wasn't getting her back. Not like that, not the way she wanted. Because Quinn didn't deserve it. Reconciliation was further than they could reach and she knew it. They could play nice, though. They could be civil and be parents and be friends. The problem was they'd never really been friends. Not to Quinn, at least. She liked Rachel from the beginning. Lucy's heart raced every time the bubbly brunette with big ears and bigger eyes met her outside of dance class so they could read or visit together before their lessons started. She couldn't get enough of that infectious laugh and larger than life personality. And every time she wanted to lean over and kiss Rachel's cheek—because at the age of eleven, pecks on the cheek were as far as Lucy dared—the voice inside her head reminded her it was wrong. Pronounced her guilty for a sin she'd yet to commit. Rebuked her for the very thought of it. When she'd become Quinn to save herself and please her father, she saved her soul in the way he said would please God, too. So she hated Rachel Berry. Because Rachel had two fathers. Because Rachel wasn't made as the Lord intended. Because her very existence was an abomination. Because she was different. And when Russell found out years later how different his own daughter was, he supplied enough hate to cancel out hers. Hate to replace what Quinn never really felt. Hate to challenge the love she had for Rachel Berry. Hate to rival how much Rachel loved her in return. But never enough to stop them from trying.

Even now, it wasn't hate that ended them. It was love. She loved Rachel so much she'd left, walked away to stop hurting her like she had been for so long. It wasn't a pompous, holier-than-thou choice because she felt Rachel would be better off without her, either (which she actually believed at the time), but that wasn't why they separated.

She and Rachel made the decision together. Ending it, that is. They talked about it, yelled about it, then gave it up. Together. Yet the reality was Quinn doubted whether Rachel was better off or not. And it killed her. She honestly thought she'd done the right thing. And although her love for Rachel hadn't changed in these months of separation it wasn't automatic that Rachel's feelings for her stayed the same, too. So who knew if Rachel still loved her? She wanted Quinn. That was clear. The desire and tension between the two of them was substantial, and she'd asked Quinn to stay tonight, but was that invitation out of love, lust, or the logic and rationale of needing to talk? That they had things to sort out. That they needed a discussion about the kids and visiting rights and maybe Quinn being in their lives more than she was—more than she had been before. How they had to figure out if Rachel Berry actually could get divorced without hurting her public image, salvaging her comeback in advance. Then, if so, they'd be off to the courthouse for the official paperwork and checking the box labeled "irreconcilable differences".

She groaned. Her mind was jumbled and her brain would be melting out of her ears any minute. But her pillow felt nice. It was cool on her skin and she welcomed the reprieve from being on her feet. Between the emotional stress of today and last night's Olympic sprint to get to the kids her body was crying for a good sleep. For days maybe. Weeks. It's not like she had any obligations. Her sabbatical from NYU was in full swing and would continue through the rest of the calendar year. Occasionally she called and checked in with the research team or stopped by the lab early in the morning and read the progress reports, but mainly she spent her days doing the things she never tried or returning to things she knew. Granted, two hours at the gym with only Sundays off was awful the initial few weeks, but it was getting better. She had more stamina and the yoga had her feeling as though Time rewound itself. She wasn't ready to do handsprings or sky splits and toe touches, but she liked the benefits of being almost as fit as she was prior to her pregnancy with Josh.

Sighing, she rolled under the covers and threw an arm over her eyes. He didn't say goodbye when she left the house. Daniel waved and Ava was still sleeping, but Josh didn't so much as glance at her when she stood by the front door and told him she loved him. He just kept walking up to his room with a bag of corn chips and a two litre bottle of pop. Rachel acknowledged her, though. Eye contact and a forlorn smile was all they shared as Quinn departed, same as last time. Only worse. Sadder.

The only diversion she had from that pain was in stopping Clarissa outside and exchanging information and directing the mother-to-be to a trusted obstetrician Dr. Fabray briefly worked under during medical school at Columbia. It was also the opportunity for depositing a large sum of money into the young woman's account via their phones, as promised. Santana towered on the top step of the stoop glaring in challenge for Quinn get back in the ring with her for another round until Clarissa turned and threw a wadded up piece of paper at the jealous lawyer, smacking San in the chest. Quinn learned it had two phone numbers on it, identical except for the final single digit. Clarissa shrugged, rather blasé, telling San she had a fifty/fifty chance of getting it right on the first try. Then, smirking, she walked down the street without looking back and disappeared around the corner. Santana swooned, sputtering in Spanish so scrambled Quinn hadn't understood a word of it. Yeah. Santana. _Swooning_.

A dry chuckled left Quinn's throat. They were a bad idea but Santana was smitten after a day. It was almost fun to watch. Or it would be if any good could come from such a dalliance. But with the hair stylist pregnant and Santana being...Santana...Quinn sighed again. Bad idea all around.

However, it wasn't her place to say anything. It took San years to even tell her and Rachel and months before she came near a big and round Quinn with Joshua floating inside her womb. So when that bridge came it'd be all up to Santana to cross it. God willing, Clarissa would meet her halfway or leave before they ever got there.

People could be so stupid.

People like Quinn.

She rolled face first into the pillow and screamed, its stuffing mostly muffling the noise.

Unfortunately, it also muffled the sound of her phone ringing. By the time she popped her head back up the screen showed one missed call. She didn't have time to see who it was before the dumb thing went off again.

One hand snatched up device and she answered without looking at the ID. "Hello?" Her voice was gruff from the shouting.

The voice in her ear, however, was frazzled and anxious. "Quinn?"

"Rachel? What's wrong?"

Fighting after months of silence only to get a late night phone call from the woman she was close to divorcing was certainly not what Quinn expected at—she pulled her phone away and checked—shortly after midnight.

"Get back here."

The command to return was more unexpected, though. Quinn may have been dog tired and brain dead, but she knew where Rachel meant. Moreover, she still had the presence of mind not to venture forth in this weather. Now upgraded to Tropical Storm Jaquese, the elements wailed on the city like a fire hose against a house of cards. Leaving the safety of the apartment would not be the wisest choice. "Why?"

"Ava's sick. Get your ass out of bed and come back because something's wrong."

She sighed and sat up, turning on a light with a tap to the nightstand. "Something" could be anything. "What is it?"

"Well I don't know. That could be why I'm calling. She's unwell, all right?"

"Okay, okay," Quinn said. She threw off the covers and and took a moment to clear her head and focus on not biting at Rachel's baiting. It wasn't intentional, Rachel just never handled their kids' illnesses well. "Did you call her doctor?"

There was a pause. Then a deadpanned, "Quinn. You're a doctor."

The tired woman rolled her eyes to the ceiling, praying for patience. "I meant _her_ doctor." She was their mother and couldn't ethically be their real pediatrician despite how she cared for them at home more often than taking them to doctors' offices.

"I—no," Rachel said, her voice softening but still concerned. "You were my first thought."

For some ridiculous reason, Quinn's heart fluttered. Her irritation with Rachel dissipated. "Tell me everything."

A number of symptoms filed over the phone. Ava had a high fever with no appetite to the point of not eating dinner under threat of losing certain privileges like special games or television. She didn't want her usual bedtime snack and lay around all evening demanding extra cuddles, songs, books—clinging to Rachel the whole time. She fought, and cried in refusal of a bath or brushing her teeth thus losing more privileges and toys to the toy jail when Rachel gave up. Oh, but Quinn's absolute and not at all favorite was the regurgitated biliary juices of an empty stomach all over the princess's bedroom floor. Then all over Rachel. Poor little girly.

While her wife carried on through speakerphone, Quinn grabbed her glasses off the nightstand and found clothes. Spare ones, actually. Something to wear if Ava upchucked on her, too. While the wind picked up and howled outside her window, the rain lightened to a sprinkle so her pajamas of an old college t-shirt and yoga pants were sufficient for a mad dash to the bus stop. Humans wouldn't be driving the big electric transit beasts right now, but the traffic guidance programs of the city's OS secured Manhattan's legendary insomnia for this and generations to come. The City That Never Sleeps carried on as always so the return to the house wasn't an issue. Quinn was more concerned she had everything she'd need for taking care of Ava when she got there.

Finding her large rectangular silver bag, she rested the phone next to it and proceeded inventorying its contents, deciding what would and wouldn't be vital to treating Ava's symptoms. Her basic tools were there along with things she'd used both on her own children and those overseas years ago. Cyclizine in all forms for nausea and vomiting. Powder packets of Pedialyte to mix with water and oral salt tablets for the dehydration caused by said vomiting. Sterile gloves, masks, etc. were all there, too. She debated removing anything that wasn't specific to small children, but didn't on the off chance the boys or Rachel were sick as well because from her beginning, Quinn kept her travel medical bag stocked and ready to go at a moment's notice. It was a habit she was proud of. Even when she did lecture tours she went through the carryall before flying out, leaving anything the household kits lacked which Rachel might need, then repacked it thanks to NYU Langone Medical Center. There were definite perks to working for an academic hospital: the stock room was a like a Wal-Mart warehouse of medical supplies. And since Dr. Fabray carried the reputations of the institution and its board of trustees wherever she traveled, she brought along her big ballistic nylon satchel regardless of destination. Be it a colloquium on preventing and treating infectious diseases held in Nebraska or a med-mission trip to Burma, this bag was on her flight, in her car, and on her back. Now she needed it for her baby.

She shrugged on her long rain coat then swung the strap over her head and shoulder bandolier style, like an outlaw cowboy with ammunition for fighting back against the injustice of illness and carrying syringes instead of a six-shooter pistol. Quinn shook her head at her stupidity as she got to the door, stepping into her Wellington boots.

"Quinn?"

She'd almost forgotten they were still on the phone. "Yeah?"

"Hurry."

A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth and Quinn recalled something about how a cowboy's work was never done. Nor was a doctor's. Or a mother's. "On my way."

Time prove unreliable as always in how slow the quick journey was. A ride that should've been twenty minutes took more than thirty and felt like three hours, but now she was off and contending with the wind threatening to blow her off the corner of 2nd Ave and East 49th Street. She hardly reached the gate before it opened and a hand grabbed her sleeve, dragging her up wet stone steps and into the townhouse. Quinn didn't have time to shake off the light rain because Rachel was rambling The death grip moved to her wrist, and brown eyes teemed with the worry of the helpless.

"She's burning up. I tried a cool cloth and Tylenol but her temperature is still rising and I can't stop it and she was crying and I should have noticed it earlier and my baby's hurting and there's nothing I can do about it!"

It was a wonder Rachel still stood. Dark bags under her teary eyes made them sunken, and her cheeks were as pale as could be. Her lower lip was raw from chewing it to bits and her hair was a mess, like she'd been running her hands through it in impotent frustration. All in all, she looked frightened and ready to drop. Once again, Quinn had to be the calm one.

Removing her bag and coat, she took Rachel into her arms. She didn't question the instinct because Rachel curled into her, her small hands clutching the crew neck of Quinn's shirt. "Stop. It's okay. Breathe. She'll be fine."

The brunette sniffed and wiped her nose on the thin shirt of faded Yale Blue. Quinn didn't even care. Ava was probably going to throw up on her in a few minutes anyway.

"Just take me to her, all right?" she said, leaving her rain boots by the door.

Once led to the master bedroom she saw a small child in a restless, whimpering sleep. Ava sprawled on her back as usual, one foot dangling off the bed while the other was tangled in the massive comforter she must have kicked off in her feverish discomfort.

Quinn broke from Rachel and approached the bed. Ava looked miserable.

She was sweating, leaving damp patches on her nightgown and the bed sheet. Streaks from dried tears ran down from the corners of her eyes while a few curls stuck to her forehead. The doctor smiled softly and brushed them away. It looked like Rachel had tried to pull back most of Ava's hair in a loose ponytail, because she had to do something. Anything that might help. She stroked the wet hair and hazel eyes moved on. Ava's cheeks were red. Bright, shiny apple red. The doctor knew immediately it was not from the actual fever. Quinn sighed heavily.

"What? I know you know so tell me. What is it?" Rachel asked from behind her.

She debated lying. However, she really couldn't bring herself to do it. "I have an idea, but there is another possibility so I won't know for sure until I examine her."

All right, part of that was a lie. There were about six possibilities. But she really, really did not need Rachel freaking over something like Kawasaki Disease right now. Not that that's what Quinn thought this was, however.

Her bag rested on the nightstand and she consciously slowed her movements in a subliminal signal for Rachel to relax. If Quinn wasn't in a hurry then Rachel was less likely to panic. She cleaned her hands with waterless soap then retrieved a singlet of rose colored latex gloves and slipped them on. Slow and steady. All to keep her wife from losing it like Rachel was so close to doing. She gently coaxed the small body closer to the edge as she kneeled on the floor. "Okay, Vee-Vee. Time to wake up, baby girl"

Ava grunted and grumbled as she was rearranged and Quinn couldn't blame her: she'd be pretty upset about feeling so awful, too.

"It's Mommy, Avy. I'm going to look at your body and see what's wrong, okay?"

One eye half peeked open and nailed Quinn with the best "fuck off" look any four-year-old could deliver. "Go'way."

She knew enough not to take it personally. Extreme irritability was common among the list of culprit viruses scrolling through her mind. Quinn pulled out a paper thin thermometer and placed it on Ava's forehead like a wide band-aid, covering her temporal artery. The blacklight imbedded in it read a clear 103.6º Fahrenheit in seconds. Higher than what Rachel told her over the phone. Everything she did from here on out no longer catered to Rachel's peace of mind and was solely for Ava's benefit.

Her exam began with taking her daughter's blood pressure, wrapping a child's size cuff around her arm. It had a popular cartoon character on it, a chubby little owl named Hubert. Quinn's matching stethoscope had Hubert's unsolicited companion, Cosmo Mouse, whom he'd rescued from a mousetrap...in the middle of the forest. The pair reminded Quinn of Rachel and Santana in their younger years, actually. Santana as Hubert, the cynical (or in the lawyer's case, bitchy) owl whose feathers ruffled at the slightest annoyance from the tiny creature who should have been his prey had Hubert not stayed his appetite for the pitiable whines coming from the entrapped mouse, which of course left Rachel as Cosmo, who bopped and bounced around his reluctant friend with an enormous amount of energy that belied his physical stature and constantly mispronounced his name, jumping and shouting "Whoobert—Hey WHOOBERT!" to get the owl's attention.

The ear-tips firmly in place, she chuckled to herself, knowing full well that the detachable Cosmo Mouse decoration on the stethoscope gave the wearer mouse ears. Ava smiled weakly. Quinn knew how silly she looked, but when it came to distracting sick children from whatever ailed them, Dr. Fabray had no qualms about looking foolish. Besides, kids usually liked the nifty Hubert and Cosmo pairing and if not, Quinn always had different kinds of stickers with her.

Ava's BP and pulse were normal, mostly. Her breathing was steady and her lungs clear. Quinn slung the scope around the back of her neck out of habit and pulled away the cuff only to come back with her combination oto-ophthalmoscope for checking Ava's eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. "Okay pretty girl. Let's see those beautiful brown eyes."

The child squinted at her, frowning. "Say please."

"You're right. Miss Ava, may I please see your beautiful brown eyes now?"

Ava nodded her permission and dark lashes parted all the way, revealing deep, almost black irises. "I gots them from my Mama, right?" she asked, her voice little more than a croak.

Quinn smiled at her daughter even as her heart clenched with the knowledge of how poorly the child felt. "Yes you did. That made me very happy the first time I saw you."

"When I was borned?"

"Yes. When you were borned," she repeated, loving the unique way children spoke. It was substantially cuter with her own kids, though. "When you came out of Mama's belly and..."

She blinked, easily recalling the sight of an underweight, blueish-skinned baby gaining a healthy color by catching massive gulps of oxygen in tiny lungs and finally screaming out for all the world to hear. And when their small but miraculous little girl looked at Quinn the first time... "I was so, so happy to see Mama gave you those pretty eyes."

"Why?"

Quinn continued the examination, using the scope light to determined the girl's eyes and ears as good and healthy. Nose and mouth were next... Quinn swallowed in sympathy. That tongue was all too red for the doctor's liking and bumpy. Maybe it wasn't what she thought. And in the hope she was wrong, she killed the light with a click. "Can you sit up, Vee-Vee?"

A sweaty little head shook no.

"What if Mama helps?" Rachel asked, coming near and sitting on the edge of the bed. Ava agreed and was carefully lifted into Rachel's lap, facing Quinn.

The doctor raised her hand. "Good job, baby. High five?"

It was weak, but the gesture still made Ava smile as best she could, all things considered.

Equally important as cheering up her daughter, it gave Quinn a way to inspect the little girl's palms one at a time. Discerning hazel eyes tracked over the little hands, seeing spots forming into bumps and a particularly nasty one on the fleshy part between Ava's thumb and index finger. She held back a sigh and resumed distracting Ava from the pain of that foul looking blister.

"Well. I was happy because I think your Mama has the most beautiful eyes that ever was." She smiled at her own use of childish language while carefully avoiding looking at Rachel in any way.

"That _ever_ was?" Ava whispered, awed.

"Mm-hmm." Honesty overran her voice. "That ever ever was. And now," she brightened, "you have them, too." She jiggled one of Ava's toes. "May I see your feetsies, please?"

Ava stuck her foot straight out, nearly kicking Quinn in the face. "Did I gets them from my Mama, too?"

"Oh no," Quinn said, stroking her gloved thumb over the sole of a small right foot. "We bought these from a family of bears out in the forest. They made them special."

A surreptitious pinch just above her elbow stopped her short. She didn't notice Rachel had leaned so close.

"I have bear feet?"

"Very pretty bear feet." The blonde finally met a scolding stare and smirked. For how much Ava had perked up, Rachel could pinch Quinn all she wanted. "Bear feet that can run fast and play games and climb trees an—"

"Does they dance?"

"Oh, bear feet are best for dancing. Why? Well because dancing is what bears do best."

"Best like Mama?"

"Better, sweetie," Rachel added. Both women smiled in their own way, knowing dancing was not the performer's strongest suit. She was less of a triple threat and more of a two-and-one-half threat with a voice big enough to carry the remainder. Planting a kiss to Ava's damp hair, Rachel smiled. "One day you'll be better than Mama."

"Yeah," Ava spoke through a yawn. "Then you can't do it no more betuz only I can do it betuz I'm the betterest."

She yawned again and Quinn wanted another look in that strawberry red mouth just to be sure. "Are you the betterest at opening your mouth big and wide, Vee-Vee?"

Similar to Ava's "fuck off" look was her second-generation Rachel Berry "how-dare-you-insinuate-I-cannot-do-something" expression. "Of course I am."

She proved it, giving the doctor one more chance to examine her.

Small oral lesions Quinn wished she had imagined earlier dotted the insides of Ava's cheeks an the back of her throat. She tilted Ava's head back more and up her nose again with the light, a single lesion peeked from highest point inside of one nostril, almost hidden by the shape of the cavity itself. She should have caught that. Yeah, this wasn't good. It wasn't horrible, but it wasn't good. In actuality, it was fair to say all these sores and blisters would be worse by the morning. The only option was making the girl comfortable.

"Ava, does your tummy hurt anymore? Like all twisty before you throw up?"

She got the tiniest head shake no. No need for the cyclizine then. And Rachel had already given her Tylenol, so no more of that. What she needed to know now was if her daughter needed a painkiller. And to be honest, Ava was getting one anyway.

"But your mouth hurts, huh? And your patties?" She pointed to those small hands, both held close to a sweaty chest and one clutching a stuffed Star-Bellied Sneetch.

Ava nodded.

"What about the rest of your body? Does it hurt anywhere else?" The child nodded again and Quinn pursed her lips, eyebrows raising. "Where?"

The vehemence with which Ava refused to answer is what surprised Quinn until the little girl said, "I can't tell you."

Her stomach sank. Horror about possible abuse flared through her mind but she didn't have time to process it all before Rachel spoke.

"Why not, sweetheart? Mommy's here to help." Her voice was airy, but she looked just as terrified as Quinn felt.

Ava rolled her head back and gazed up at the older brunette, then pulled Rachel downward by the cheeks and cupped her hands around her Mama's ear, whispering.

"Oh." Rachel blew out a breath bigger and stronger than the West Wind. "I see."

Relieved brown eyes found Quinn's before turning semi-serious to look at Ava when she relinquished her hold. "Can I tell Mommy?"

Ava shrugged and toyed with a length of Rachel's hair.

Humor infiltrated Rachel's eyes and voice. "She doesn't want to say it out loud because _L-A-U-G-H-I-N-G H-I-P-P-O_ might overhear and find out Ava doesn't want to D-A-N-C-E with him right now and she's afraid he will be mean."

Quinn's eyebrows rocketed upward and the relief she felt knowing that the worst case scenario was _not_ the problem lifted her heart higher than the moon. Laughing Hippo was Ava's imaginary friend from when the girl was a little less than three years old. Laughing Hippo was purple and wore a periwinkle tutu with pink pointe shoes like the hippopotamus from Disney's _Fantasia_. Oh, he also had a handlebar moustache according to Ava's drawings. He was quite the trouble maker and rarely listened to directions. Ava spent much of their play putting Laughing Hippo in the time-out chair—which was also imaginary and much larger because Laughing Hippo was just too big for something "me-sized", as Ava told them.

Laughing Hippo had a terrible habit of taking Quinn's seat at the dinner table, too. Many a time had the doctor vaulted upward at Ava's shout of "NO!" in effort to avoid sitting on Laughing Hippo—who was perfectly capable of fitting into something "Mommy-sized" (and boy, did that do wonders for her body image). Then, predictably, Laughing Hippo would laugh, getting down only after being asked very politely. Quinn had said "please" to an empty chair more times than she'd ever tell.

"Is it because your feet hurt, Avy?" Just because they looked and felt normal didn't mean they weren't painful. Quinn glanced at the little feet. Ava didn't need blisters there, too.

"Theys itchy."

"Are you itchy anywhere else?" Quinn asked.

"My butt." Ava immediately rolled over in Rachel's arms to show off her bottom.

Each woman suppressed laughter. "Can Mommy check?"

"Yeah," the answer was muffled somewhere between Rachel's hip and the mattress and Ava added a wiggle for good measure. "Cuz it's itchy."

Quinn's movements in exposing the area were slow and careful. Spreading from the small of the little girl's back to the tops of her thighs was a rash. Lacy and smooth. "Let's get some new jammies, okay baby girl? That way you won't be all sticky."

"Hmm." After a moment of consideration, Ava sagely nodded her forehead into the mattress. "Yes. That would be good."

Rachel sat Ava up and the two women divested their daughter of her clothing. Quinn noticed more spots. Bumps, actually. Bumps on her knees that would likely fill with fluid and blister just like the ones on Ava's hands would. There was no escaping it. Of all these symptoms, however, it was the mouth sores that most put the doctor on edge.

"And..." She looked to Rachel who'd been incredibly patient and didn't ask the questions Quinn knew bobbed on the tip of her tongue. Questions for which Quinn needed time to come up with harmless and mundane answers. "Maybe Mama can change the sheets, too, so it's nice and cool for you, okay?"

Brown eyes stared at her, hard and a little pissed off because Quinn was stalling and they both knew it. Nonetheless she agreed and handed Ava over to Quinn who smiled in genuine thanks and took their daughter into the en suite to see if the child would agree to a bath. That was not the case. But Ava did let Quinn wash her down with a cool, soft flannel and apply a small amount of calamine lotion to the itchy, red spots. Other than that there wasn't much she could do for the girl except knock her out.

When they finished a cranky, whimpering, and naked Ava was wrapped in a towel and carried into the room then dressed in fresh, dry sleep clothes and laid on fresh, dry bedding. The doctor was firm in making Ava drink the Pedialyte mix even though Ava whined with each swallow. That noise ripped at her heart. No parent liked seeing their child in so much pain. Afterward, she applied a topical analgesic to that awful blister then to each lesion using a long cotton swab and took the girl's temperature again. One hundred and two degrees. Progress.

Quinn gathered all her instruments in a zip seal bag for later sterilization and snapped off her gloves as Ava dozed off with the help of the two hundred milligram ibuprofen strip dissolving on her tongue. She re-washed her hands then followed Rachel's stern glare into the hallway, closing the door behind them.

"Talk."


	26. Save The Children 2 Rescue Me

**Title**: Save The Children (Rescue Me)  
**Author**: Frensayce  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Pairing**: Rachel/Quinn  
**Disclaimer**: Glee is not mine, but this series is.  
**Spoilers**: Everything, future. Faberry in their forties.

Wow. I just. WOw. Like really WOW. You are all amazing. Thank you all so much for all the amazing reviews and follows! Can' .

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Quinn leaned against the solid oak door, unconsciously sliding the medical bag across her front. The strap pulled at her shoulder, uncomfortable, but the protection she felt was enough to cancel it out. She hoped it was enough to block the worry and anger rolling off Rachel, too. So far, it was not. It'd only get worse once she shared her diagnosis. Not because it was necessarily bad, but because her actress wife was, well, rather dramatic.

"It's Hand Foot and Mouth Disease."

"What?!" Rachel screeched. Her brown eyes widened in the worst kind of shock. "Mad cow? My baby has mad cow disease?! Quinn that's—"

"No. No. Not mad cow. That's Foot and Mouth. Or Hoof and Mouth." Both names were accurate, not that Rachel would care much. "Ava has Hand Foot and Mouth. It's very common among kids her age. She probably got it from someone at dance class or a play group."

Quinn moved toward the staircase, gesturing for Rachel to go in front of her. The brunette didn't budge. Quinn sighed and led the way downstairs. When she reached the landing she turned and looked up. Rachel stood gripping the banister, refusing to come down. "I can't talk to you if you're all the way up there."

Gnawing her lip, the woman acquiesced and followed. She stopped on the bottom step, judging Quinn from her slightly higher position. "Start talking, then."

The doctor dropped the bag by her rain boots next to the front door and did as asked. She explained what it was, how it worked, how miserable Ava was going to be for the next week or so, how the boys and probably everyone else was fine because most people came into contact with it in their younger years and either had a natural immunity or built one up from the exposure. Some children (and a few adults) weren't so lucky. The only solace there was that when adults got Hand Foot and Mouth it was so much worse than it was for kids. All the while Rachel's eyes trained on the floor, her arms hugged over her middle and her French pedicured big toe gliding over the hardwood surface of the step.

She'd calmed considerably.

"Look, she'll be fine. Keep her comfortable and hydrated. She won't want to eat anything for the next few days because the pain of swallowing is honestly going to get worse. Probably a lot." Quinn was not going to lie or sugar coat how much their daughter would be hurting by the morning. "So push cool drinks or popsicles, if you can. Ice cream is an option, too, and might cheer her up a little. Her shakes are good, water is best if she can manage. I can leave a few things with you if you'd like. The anti-nausea stuff and some stronger pain meds if you think she needs them. But continue the Tylenol as directed for the next twenty-four hours. Her fever should break soon and by the end of next week she'll be back to the darling, devious, hyperactive four-year-old we know and love."

Rachel cracked a smile at that. Actually, it was the crinkling of nearly imperceptible crow's feet and a tired but genuine twinkle in her eyes. Her beautiful, beautiful eyes which owned Quinn in every way.

She wasn't joking when she told Ava her Mama's eyes were the most beautiful ones Quinn had ever seen. God outdid Himself, and no matter how advanced bio-tech became, they could never be replicated. Ava's were as close as can be, Daniel's too, but there was something Rachel's gaze possessed which their children didn't have. And wouldn't have until they grew up and fell in love. That's always what it was. Love. Rachel's dark eyes were gorgeous but it was love Quinn saw shining in them that cemented them as the most truly beautiful eyes. That ever ever was.

However, Quinn was known for seeing what she wanted to see and ignoring the truth. The shadow of love she saw now? Just another instance of the stubborn blonde disregarding the facts.

"Right." Rachel's voice broke and she cleared her throat. "Nothing in your magic bag for that, Doctor?"

What? Oh, Ava's sassy, precocious nature. "No," she laughed the littlest bit and took off her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Still racing for the cure on that one, I'm afraid."

She looked up to see the fuzzy image of Rachel indulging her with a faint smile.

"Thank you. For coming over, I mean."

Quinn could've made an innuendo about doctors and house-calls, but didn't. She didn't have the energy and instead spun the stem of the titanium frames between two fingers, a nervous habit from childhood. Ava got the last of her adrenaline and the woman was tapped out. All she had left was the knowledge that she'd be walking out the door again, even though she didn't own the strength for it. Either way, it had to be done. New goodbyes had to be said. But not before she made one thing perfectly clear.

"I meant it, Rachel. This morning in the kitchen. When I said I'll do anything? I will. Anything you need—anything they need, I'm here. I know I wasn't before and you can't imagine how much I regret that. But I'm here now and, Jesus... I'll do whatever it takes. I'll be here. For as long as you let me."

She couldn't not say it. The promise she remembered making the night she proposed was all she could think of. And even though she forgot it once, she meant it just as much now as she did in the middle of Grand Central Station. As much as she did standing in front of Rachel, relinquishing their winter's wedding grip only to slide that ring on the fourth finger of her brand new wife's left hand.

Hazel eyes drifted to that hand. The clarity with which she saw it wasn't great thanks to her eyes, but the band was still there. She wondered, since Rachel appeared to have lost some weight in the last couple of months, if the words inscribed inside the golden circle still left an impression on her skin. The words Quinn had a helluva yet not at all difficult time deciding on. She wanted to check. She wanted so much to see if she still left a mark on Rachel. They same way Rachel would always leave a mark on her. Instead she put her glasses back on.

Keen eyes probed hers as though Rachel knew exactly what Quinn had been thinking. And for an instant she looked as though she wanted to answer the unasked question. She didn't.

"I didn't know you still wore those." Rich brown hair followed the tilt of Rachel's head as she took in Quinn's whole appearance.

That wasn't a surprise Rachel didn't know that, believe it or not. Quinn hardly ever wore her glasses. Hadn't worn them in years, quite literally.

Rachel picked these out. She wouldn't let Quinn get the surgery out of fear something would go awry and Quinn's hazel eyes might be damaged. Regardless of how refined and advanced the procedure was or how much easier it'd be for the doctor to travel on different missions without the annoyance of contact lenses, Rachel didn't allow it. She'd claimed contacts were perfectly adequate because they only needed to be changed every six months and Quinn was never gone that long. Quinn, however, replaced each pair down to the exact dates twice a year so she didn't have to bother with her glasses. But the rain and tears and wind and her overall claustrophobia meant the lenses had to come out: every part of her needed air after the day she'd had. She still felt like she was suffocating.

"Long day," was all the explanation she had.

Rachel's response was just as lackluster. "Yeah."

They paused in agonizing silence that grew tenser and tenser with each breath. Quinn waited on tenterhooks, stretching to her breaking point. She got the supplies from her bag to leave with Rachel. Even some stickers she had just to hopefully make Ava smile. She held everything out to her, but not timidly. "Here. The boys might like them, too. Daniel will, at least. I know Josh won't admit he likes them but, you know, it was his favorite book."

Squares of Sam-I-Am from Dr. Seuss' _Green Eggs and Ham _rested on top of packets of Pedialyte, some painkillers and Cyclizine skin patches, and more stickers of various other Seuss characters. Rachel stared at them. Quinn watched the tendons in her neck flex as she swallowed and reached to take the handful of things in her grasp. Neither said anything but Rachel took the last last step onto the foyer floor, level as much as they could be.

"Thank you. Hopefully he won't slap them all over the walls like he used to."

Quinn hummed. "Scraping those off was like one of the Labors of Hercules, I swear. Hated it."

"Well, you never were very good at it, always leaving some sticky behind. You'd have had better luck slaying Medusa."

"That was Perseus."

Brown eyes rolled and Rachel gave an exaggerated sigh. She was teasing her, but it was true. Because try as she might Quinn could never fully clean off the last layer of gluey residue. "You know what I mean."

"Some things were better left to you, I guess. Trying counts for something, right?" Her own words stopped her and she needed to somehow lighten the mood. "So do I at least get points for all that time spent taking a butter knife and soapy water to the living room wall?"

The brunette nodded. "All the points." Then she gave a one-shouldered shrug. "We still had to rearrange the bookcase to block it that one time so there might be a small deduction."

Quinn knew more than most that "you can't win them all" was more than some trite adage. It was truer than the rotation of the earth. "I'll take what I can get."

It was Rachel's turn to hum with a lack of words. She sidestepped Quinn and made for the kitchen, looking back with a clear but soft invitation to follow. So she did.

The room was no different than when they'd fought this morning. Just as clean, with the coffee pot set to switch on and brew at precisely six in the morning. The blonde checked the time on the machine. Six o'clock would be here all too soon. She needed to get back to her apartment and into bed before she fell over.

"You can stay."

"What?" she asked. Rachel was always too good at reading her.

"The night. You can stay. I'll make up the couch." The shorter woman absently gestured toward the living room.

This sounded like the best and worst idea her wife ever had. Quinn wasn't sure what to do. She knew she was worn out and crashing on the couch didn't sound bad at all. It was the staying over part that rang alarm bells in her head. "That's maybe not a good idea."

"No," Rachel agreed. "It's not. But it's late, it's Armageddon outside, and you're already in pajamas so you might as well. I'd offer the guest room but I assume I can't go back to our—my bed with Ava."

Quinn closed her eyes. The reaffirmation of what was and what is was like a knife in her heart. "Yeah. I don't think she'd wake up, but it's best not to risk it."

"So," the brunette continued with her plan. "I'll take the guest room and you can have a couch down here since I doubt you want to go back into that office again anytime soon."

True. She'd spent too much time in that room already and had no desire to return. Rachel knew her maybe a little too well. But not well enough to guess all the things Quinn hid. Like the parts of herself she never gave her wife. The parts she was sure Rachel would never want.

For how weary she was and how sincere Rachel was asking, she wanted to say yes. She had spare toiletries in her bag anyway. More like the bare minimum of a tooth brush and paste and biodegradable cleansing wipes because, practically, Dr. Quinn Fabray was always prepared. It was Quinn Fabray-Berry who failed at planning. "Okay."

She wouldn't swear to it, but Rachel may have smiled a little.

They stood in unease for a moment, with Rachel tapping the plastic packets and the stickers against her palm until she took a breath and straightened. "I'm going...I'm going to check on Ava again and then I'll get you some blankets."

Quinn nodded in thanks and waited in the kitchen for an extra minute after Rachel left. The creak of the wooden staircase was the only sound in the sleeping house. Moving slowly, rubbing the twinge in small of her back, she set about getting ready in the downstairs bathroom for a sure to be restless sleep on one of the two couches in the next room over. Once finished, she went and sat on the arm rest of the larger one, zoning out at the monsoon weather that'd restarted while they were with Ava.

"Here," Rachel said, coming around to stand in front of Quinn.

A pillow and a tall pile of blankets nearly obscured her freshly scrubbed face. The headband she wore was adorable evidence of a nighttime routine decades old. Quinn smelled the body lotion from earlier and a fresh wave of nostalgia washed over her. She was really going to miss that.

Rachel set the tower of blankets on the coffee table, frowning at Quinn. It took the blonde a minute but she got it and hopped up from her perch on the arm of the couch. Nodding, Rachel clapped her hands a single time then rubbed her palms together. "Right. Is there anything else you need?"

Quinn shook her head and sat on the couch the way society and Rachel deemed acceptable. Why did this have to be so painfully awkward? She wondered if they'd ever be normal again. Relatively, she meant. "No. Thank you for the...stuff. Letting me stay."

_Letting_her. Allowing her to stay in the house she entered into a bidding war with some weasel-faced little rich boy who all but erected his silver spoon as a flag, claiming it as a family heirloom and his birthright until Quinn and Santana treated him to a late lunch one afternoon. Remarkably, he managed to withdraw his bid before the end of business hours that same day.

Her glasses were off again as she rubbed her eyes, unable to look at Rachel. Unable to see the moment her wife would walk away and retreat upstairs to their room—well, a room near theirs. What used to be theirs.

"You should..." Rachel trailed off, her voice fading into the silence of the house until she tried again. "You should wear those more often. You always looked good in glasses."

Quinn stared at the wire frames: silver, with rectangular lenses and moderately outdated. Her vision blurred all the more, salt burning her eyes at the memory of how giggly Rachel had been after she got them.

Nine months pregnant, three days overdue and in a pissy mood, the brunette complained about being on her swollen feet for the entire duration of the visit to the optometrist's office, going on and on about how she didn't _have_ to be there and how Quinn was crazy for telling her she needed to walk around more if she wanted to hurry Ava's arrival. But then she perused the wall of frames, playing and trying on the silliest ones she found, making Quinn do the same. Until a set she was convinced wouldn't work for the blonde were all but tossed at the doctor. Playing along, anything to keep Rachel amused, Quinn put them on and waited for more giggles. They didn't come. Instead Rachel stared at her in a kind of awe before mashing her lips together in a flat line. She'd approached her slowly, tucking long blonde hair behind Quinn's ears, lingering to tease the sensitive organs. The words she'd used that day were things like "smart" and "sexy" and a plethora of other synonyms her walking thesaurus of a wife could think of. She'd even demanded Quinn wear them in bed a few times. Before their sex life fizzled out completely.

"So you've said." Quinn's hand spanned her face, pressing her thumb and first two fingers against her eyeballs as if that would halt her tears. She sniffled; she couldn't help it. In response, Rachel sat on the coffee table and wiped the few escaping droplets off her cheek. Then she took Quinn's glasses and carefully returned them to their rightful place, straying to tuck back hair that didn't need need it behind the doctor's ear. The same way she'd done the first day. The way she'd always done.

"There," she whispered, her smile wistful. "Lookin' good, Doc."

It was a toss up between crying and laughing. Neither won out: Quinn had some discipline left. Not much, but some. "Yeah. You were right, I guess."

"I wasn't right about everything, Quinn," Rachel said. Her face was pained, as if admitting she'd ever been wrong in her life physically hurt. "I'm still not."

She didn't know what to say. Rachel was sitting across from Quinn, hands caught between her knees and shoulders tense, looking so damn vulnerable. Maybe Quinn owed it to her to be just as open. A great breath forced its way from her lungs. There was no "maybe" about it.

"I keep having this dream. Nightmare. It feels like a nightmare." She looked to the ceiling as she'd done earlier today, but the plaster parlor swirl design of this room had no better success in staving off her tears than the office's did. "I didn't know what I'd done. Then. At the time. Didn't realize it until..."

It didn't rush out in a deluge of words, though. It was slow, like trying to pump water from a barren well. She'd never been the type of person who talked about these things and that truth brought a grimace to her face. So did the fact that she hadn't kept her promise. She once told Rachel she belonged to her. It was time to pay up, make good on her debt. However, she had nothing left. Nothing left but the parts she never gave Rachel in the first place. Parts she was sure Rachel never wanted. Her fear. Her failure. Her weakness.

"Anyway. One day at Steven's office, it clicked. All the things I did wrong. All my mistakes. And, and afterward I started thinking up all these ways—big, extravagant ways—to show you I still love you. And that I want to fix this. Fix us. But San said you didn't want to see me, didn't want anything to do with me and I'm not blaming her. Really. Not at all. Because I still should have tried. Tried to see you like I did with the kids—to see them, I mean. See if they even wanted to see me. All day long I think about this stuff. What I could have done differently and can't seem to change.

"And then, I go to sleep. I lie there in a bed I hate and dream and the only thing I see is you. All of you." Quinn took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "Walking away from me. Walking away with the boys on either side of you. Josh looks back once then turns around and keeps moving. Daniel doesn't hear me so he doesn't turn around at all. I never see his face. But Ava. Each time Ava looks over your shoulder as you carry her away, looking at me with these big sad tears. The same ones I always put in your eyes."

She paused in a futile attempt of swallowing the lump in her throat. There was more she had to say. "I chase after you. Every night. Every night I've been running after what we had. But it's like the whole world population took over the city. Billions of people walking down the streets of Manhattan, blocking my way. Bumping into me. Dragging me backward."

Quinn now stared out the windows, watching the rainfall instead of looking at Rachel.

"And every night I have that dream, I wake up sweating and out of breath. Like I really was running. Sometimes I wake up crying." She coughed, hating how goddamn pathetic she sounded. How pathetic she really was. "Not—not because you were leaving me. Because that's not how it happened, I know that. Believe me, I know that. But it's because you were taking them a-away from me. So please... I know it's a dream and there's a giant fucked up mess in my head and it could mean some symbolic Freudian thing or be full of Jungian Archetypes or whatever but the _fear_... The fear of it, of losing them, fuck, it's so real, Rach.

"I think...I think that I'd survive if it was only you. My life would be over but I'd keep existing in this weird underwater world I have been. It's not living. Not really. But I'd still be here, physically alive. But if they—if I lost them completely it really would kill me. I've seen people survive heart damage. The muscle slowly builds back, you know? Becomes strong again because of the wound. But no one survives a dead heart. And I love you, _God do I love you_, and I want us to make it, but they're the ones. They're the ones that... Even losing you completely, which hurts because I know I already have, my brain will remember to tell my lungs to keep breathing and the blood to keep moving. But if I lose them. Rachel, my heart won't have a reason to keep beating.

"Whatever happens with us. Divorce, permanent separation, never wanting to see me again or even acknowledging I'm on the planet, okay. Just please, please don't keep them from me. Don't take them away. Don't take them away because you hate me. I know I deserve that, but please. Please let me keep seeing them. Punish me however you want but please don't use them to do it."

Quinn, somehow, was not sobbing. There were tears, plenty of tears. Enough to fill the East River, but she wasn't openly weeping. Not yet. That'd be saved for an empty bed after another nightmare.

Rachel didn't speak throughout the whole of Quinn's pleading. She wasn't speaking now, either. Dots of salt water splattered the lenses of thin titanium frames resting on ears that flared with shame and embarrassment. But Quinn didn't move. Didn't look up. Wasn't ready to hear the "thank you for telling me but you need to leave now" she knew was coming.

Warm hands cupped her face and encouraged her gaze upward. Rachel's eyes were red, blurring behind a film of tears.

"They aren't weapons, Quinn," she whispered. "They're our children, and I would never do that to them. Or you. I couldn't. And I know: I wouldn't survive losing them, either. Not for a day."

Gathered in a surprising but more than welcome embrace, Quinn again breathed in that scent she loved, holding her wife for the last time she could say that about Rachel.

"But Quinn...I can't do this anymore."

The blonde nodded in acceptance. That was that. They were over. Rachel wouldn't deny her their kids. However, Rachel was finished with her.

It was bruising and barbaric in how quickly and thoroughly Rachel's mouth captured Quinn's. The arms holding her became a vise and the weight lifted by her confession was replaced by a familiar body climbing atop her. Intent on pulling away, her lips parted to object but Rachel was there, claiming her lips and holding her hostage instead. She moaned, wishing she hadn't. It was like handing over the keys of a city to an invading army; Rachel unlocked the gates.

The kiss was wet. Salivating mouths met over and over with a hunger that'd never truly be sated between them, made worse by years of denial and starvation because feeding their passion for each other had become a rarity. Quinn couldn't recall the last time they'd had sex, barring the night before she left. She did, however, remember being much more confident back then than she was now.

Tumbling back from the force of the attack, Quinn reclined against the couch meeting Rachel's tongue stroke for stroke. Loving hands held her face and refused to let go, ensuring the women's lips never parted. Even as the brunette settled herself and a powerful heat emanated from between legs bared by tight cotton shorts, Rachel never broke their kiss. And Quinn was so grateful. There was something about kissing Rachel that filled her with a sense of ownership and of being owned. A feeling of belonging she'd never known outside of _them_.

Ivory skinned hands ran up honey-brown legs, bare and smooth and trembling, guiding the minute roll of Rachel's hips and helping her grind downward. Rachel's hands slid through blonde hair. She tugged the short strands at Quinn's neck then raked upward, cupping the back of Quinn's head and holding her captive once more. She ravaged the taller woman's mouth, her tongue was everywhere and Quinn let it happen, let Rachel have as much as she wanted while running her nails up her wife's shirt and over her stomach exactly like she had when they'd touched this morning in the kitchen. Touched each other in anger and frustration.

Her sanity reappeared and Quinn broke the kiss. "Wait. We can't do this."

But Rachel's mouth was relentless, committed to the conquest—enslaving Quinn's willpower to say no. And doing a really good job at it. Moans filled the air and hot breath gusted over her ear then a cool, slow breeze soothed the sting of a bite from teeth that'd become like razors. Her nipples hardened with the pleasure of it all, more so when Rachel's lips skidded up and down her neck with open-mouthed kisses The usually level-headed doctor desperately needed to compose herself. This wasn't right. So why couldn't her hands stop from gripping Rachel's hair, pulling her closer?

One hand cupped the back of her wife's head and tugged her upward by the hair. Tactics changed, Quinn demanded more of that sweet mouth and began squeezing Rachel's ass, guiding the woman to rock into her again. The ache she felt jarred her and she stopped again. "Really, we _can't_ do this."

Ceasing the undulating of those delicious hips, Rachel re-framed Quinn's face in her hands. "But you said, you said you... God, Quinn, _do_ you still love me?"

"Yes," she said, wearing a sad, regretful smile. "And I should've spent every day showing you that, reminding you of it."

Rachel leaned in, their noses touching. Her brown eyes, big and beautiful, were magnified all the more by the blonde's prescription lenses. So gentle, but serious.

"Then show me now, Quinn," Rachel whispered, brushing their lips together. "Remind me now."


	27. Save The Children 3 Say The Word

Thank you all so much for the reviews, favorites, and encouragement to keep at this story! You're wonderful and I love you for it. And I apologize for the delay. Moving to NY and settling in has been more tasking than anticipated.

A/N: For all the porn I write, this was the most difficultly with a scene I've ever had. Hope it lives up to your expectations.

* * *

Quinn thought about replying. But Rachel wasn't asking her to speak. So she kissed her, kissed her with everything she'd held back during their last night together and everything that had built up while they were apart, today especially. Kissed her as though she never would again. Kissed her in prayer that that wasn't true.

Desire filled her veins, banishing all fear of losing her children but failing to allay the concern of what morning might bring. When Rachel's fingertips moved to one ear and her mouth went to the other Quinn forgot what fear was and groaned in pleasure. Hot air rushing over her skin and the resumed rocking of hotter hips drove her to the edge of reason until all she had left was the animal need for her wife she never stopped feeling. Her emotions, and Rachel, ruled her now. And although Quinn wasn't the greatest at discussing her feelings, she knew how to act on them. When she let herself. Which was usually when she was too far gone to control herself, often to the point of being unhinged. And here in this moment her defensive need to control everything around her fled.

Faster went Rachel's hips and harder became Quinn's grip. She helped the effort, raising her body to meet the brunette's while bringing Rachel down to grind on her abdomen. The taut muscles greeting her wife's core triggered a stronger spasm, but when Rachel switched ears, Quinn didn't slow their momentum. Biting. Sucking. Revisiting well known tricks used to soak Quinn's underwear. Her mouth found Rachel's jawline, leaving her own kisses and soft nips on her path to that tantalizing neck. Smooth and glistening with the finest sheen of emerging sweat it stretched to give Quinn more room for exploring, for tasting, for leaving marks on Rachel which weren't enough to dissuade her from wanting to see the four words that should be etched into her wife's ring finger.

Though thinner, Rachel's hands were still soft and gentle in their hurried need to strip Quinn down. She couldn't say her own hands weren't doing the same thing. The blonde ripped at the lacy straps of an old red camisole, wrenching them over tan shoulders as her mouth followed, first one then the other. Rachel slid her arms out of the straps and pulled the cami up and off. Sweet Jesus.

Quinn instantly latched on to a pebbled nipple and loved how it further hardened in her mouth. Laving and sucking, she worked her tongue over and over, feeling the fingers in her hair and the heavy breaths when she migrated to the other. Why did Rachel have to taste so good? Years of loving this woman never curbed Quinn's appetite for her. She nuzzled, trailing upward with little licks along Rachel's neck and kissing under her chin. Still tasting. She'd never be full, never grow tired of devouring her wife in every way. They may have suffered through droughts, some longer than others, but it was time for a revival. Time for a resurgence of what they'd once had and the passion they shared.

Impatient hands finally lifted off the old Yale t-shirt. Quinn hadn't bothered with a bra when she left the apartment and each woman moaned as their naked torsos met for the first time in months. Moans that were swallowed by a new onslaught of kisses and probing tongues. Those hands palmed her breasts, alternating massaging then pinching her nipples without distracting from their joined mouths. Short nails scored down her stomach and Rachel adjusted her seating, bracing on Quinn's abs harder than earlier. The doctor hissed in pain.

All movement stopped and nothing but panting breaths and Quinn's new grunt of discomfort was heard until Rachel asked, "What's wrong?"

Quinn shook her head. "I'm fine. Just need a second."

Both women stared at her stomach. Quinn already knew what it looked like. Rachel, however, was aghast. The wide bruise from a shoulder charge that would've sacked the best of football quarterbacks cut across her midriff. It was a dark, nasty purple with lighter plum and raspberry colored accents, and not alone. Smaller but just as vivid against her white flesh were scattered discolorations in the shape of her best friend's fists. Santana Lopez could have made a great career as a linebacker or a featherweight champion boxer. Sylvester would've been more proud of San's refusal to accept defeat than of Quinn's lucky-landed haymaker.

"Oh my God. Quinn," Rachel said, voice cracking with emotion. "Why didn't you—oh God, am I hurting you?" She fell to the side and onto the couch, sitting next to the blonde.

The loss of her wife's touch hurt worse. "I said I'm fine, Rach."

"Quinn," the brunette looked around for a moment then picked up the blankets and covered herself before attempting to cover Quinn. "Clearly you're not fine. What was I thinking? You're injured and I'm...I was..."

"Riding me?" She gave a wicked grin, too amused by Rachel's behavior to focus on her twinging abs. It not as though she was suddenly an invalid. She just needed to go slower.

"Yes. I mean no. I," the actress huffed and fell back against the couch. "You're right. We can't do this."

Quinn sucked in her cheeks, resisting the habit of chewing on them. The interior cut from earlier stung even still. Of course. Now of all times Rachel just had to agree with something she'd said, even though her mind quite obviously had changed.

They sat together in heavy silence, a good six inches of space between them. It didn't seem like much but to Quinn it was miles. A light throw lay over her chest while Rachel discreetly wrapped a soft quilt around her shoulders. Hazel eyes zeroed in on the design and their owner adjusted her glasses to better see the intricate pattern. It didn't help. They were too smudged. She took them off and tried cleaning them on the soft cotton hiding her torso, which didn't work. The embroidery was thankfully easy to see from this short distance so she set the frames on the coffee table, still staring.

"What?" Rachel looked more uncomfortable by the minute.

The blonde inclined her head toward the covering. "Did you mean to grab that?"

Puzzled, Rachel frowned at her before dropping to the blanket. Her brow knitted together in confusion, then in a kind of self-chastisement. She tossed her head back and closed her eyes. "No."

Emma Pillsbury-Howell-Schuester now again Pillsbury made them that a long time ago. It was presented to them two days before they got married under some tradition that their love and devotion and the excitement of their upcoming nuptials would carry over to last the rest of their lives if they slept under it that very night. Rachel, superstitious to a fault, insisted upon doing so, too. They didn't make love that night. Not because it felt odd to do so while covered by gift from their former guidance counselor. But because they were too caught up in each other's arms, literally holding one another all night long then awakening just as tangled as how they'd fallen asleep.

"It's our wedding quilt."

"It is," Rachel said.

Quinn leaned closer for a stronger whiff of lavender laundry detergent. "Smells clean."

"It is."

"So it's been washed recently."

As if she vowed to Barbra Streisand Herself that she'd never look at Quinn again, Rachel turned away but nodded.

"I can't remember the last time it was out of your hope chest. Yet you washed it—what, last week? Two weeks ago? Why is that?" Mid-Life Crisis Quinn was nebby, far pushier than she had been as a teenager. Too pushy for Rachel to handle it seemed.

"Because I used it, okay?! Because I missed you and I laid in bed for two days. Tana took the kids for the weekend while I moped and cried and cursed you and tried my best to hate you until I had to admit I love you so much that I can't! I didn't eat, didn't drink anything, I just laid there in and out of sleep which was horrible because if I wasn't awake thinking about how much I missed you I was dreaming about you, about us, about what song I could sing which would properly traject my sorrow and devastation and longing for you to come home and how to best execute such a dramatic scene when you don't want to see me! How am I supposed to that when I don't even know what window in this city I should be standing under singing _The Way We Were_ or _Send In The Clowns_—even though you don't particularly enjoy Streisand or Sondheim and now that I think about it surely some classic composition by The Beatles would be far less unavailing.

"So yes, I wrapped myself in this wishing it smelled like you instead of stale cedar wood and my tears because I was too depressed to move after a night of recording that god-awful ballad I wrote because you once broke me in the place I felt most safe and I had to build myself back up with a song that was more about us than about me! Worse! Because we all know it was to the same melody you'd been playing around with all that week and I couldn't think of something new because I couldn't get you out of my head long enough which means, ultimately, _we_ wrote the song. And _we_ screwed up our marriage. It was never just you or just me, it's us. _Us. _We're the ones who couldn't get it right then and we can't it right now, Quinn! And I still don't understand why!" Rachel was panting, her cheeks wet with her pain.

Quinn blinked, mute in her shock at the not uncharacteristic but still unexpected outburst.

She then shot forward and crushed Rachel in her arms, holding on for dear life. Not hers, but theirs. Each woman was crying and clinging to the other with grasps so strangulating they choked out any and all air between them. Full breaths were impossible as they hiccuped through tears and constricting throats while Quinn smothered her wife in kisses and they drown each other in the rivers running from their eyes. In moments she'd tossed away her blanket and was under Rachel's, her body tingling as it came into contact with her wife's. Their kisses were fierce now and Rachel pushed for more. So much so that Quinn ended up on the floor between the coffee table and the couch.

"Ow—mmph!"

Rachel followed and straddled Quinn's hips, twisting and shoving the table as far away as she could, then returned to the blonde's mouth. Longing to run her fingers through it all, Quinn freed dark hair from the headband. It curtained them from the world and she pulled Rachel closer, desperate for more of that sweeping tongue. Her wife obliged and restarted the slow grind, positioned slightly lower bring their centers together. Quinn groaned at the delicious pressure, banishing all sensation outside of her increasing excitement.

She rolled them over and licked the length of Rachel's neck, tasting the salty flavor collecting at the hollow of her throat. She smiled when a moan stirred the landscape underneath her lips. Her mouth traveled to sharp clavicles and down a smooth flat sternum, her tongue spiraling along the contours of perfectly rounded breasts topped with dark nipples. She pushed up and stared down at Rachel's wild hair and flushed face and shallow breathing. Keeping their eyes locked she dropped gentle kisses to each hardened peak, exhaling through her mouth and letting her warm breath wash over the sensitive skin.

Rachel whined and shivered then opened her legs. Quinn settled between them, a grateful prodigal coming home. Her wife rocked to meet her, gripping pale shoulders for leverage as fire filled Quinn's veins and need twisted in the pit of her stomach. The throaty moans spilling forth from parted red lips increased tenfold and gave her the extra spur to continue and take the time to enjoy it. Grinning, she kissed her again. It was languid and warm. Slower now. She moved downward, covering the expanse of Rachel's naked chest and as her back arched, stretching to meet Quinn's mouth. Her tongue traced over outlines of ribs she didn't want to be seeing but loved all the same. Rachel was thinner than Quinn realized, and not in a healthy way. It gave her pause.

"Quinn?"

She bit her lip as big dark eyes revealed themselves and roamed her face. It was nice to see the adorable furrow of her wife's brow hadn't changed, but Quinn didn't want to focus on the questions she had. Instead she dipped her head and peppered not-so-light kisses along Rachel's shoulder. Their rhythm restarted and when the arms about her tightened, and the blonde nipped her way up to a soft earlobe. She pressed harder with her hips, not wasting any time.

"Oh God," Rachel moaned.

Bracing on one hand, her other climbed up the inside of Rachel's thighs. The taller woman moaned as she encountered slick heat soaking through worn cotton pajama shorts. She teased swollen lips through wet fabric as questing hips rolled. "Tell me you want this," she said, voice chafing her throat. "Tell me this is okay."

Rachel's hand suddenly pressed firmly into hers as encouragement. "Okay," she said with a nod.

The blonde immediately tore at flimsy shorts and the flimsier panties underneath, diving into fiery silk. Quinn sealed her mouth to the spot just behind Rachel's jawline, relishing the way those hips pumped upward, searching for more. Their speed lessened, but their movements didn't fade in intensity as shaky breaths rippled over her cheek.

With a popping gasp, she pulled away despite Rachel's groan of disappointment then sat back on her haunches, ripping off the last vestiges of clothing. Her balance was forfeit as soon as Rachel's unbelievably long legs reached up for Quinn's waist. Those legs squeezed around her hips and yanked forward, barely allowing time for the blonde to catch herself and not crush her wife. Quinn supported her weight on her forearms on either side of Rachel's head, grateful for the thick rug covering the hardwood floor and carefully avoiding splayed chestnut tresses. Hair pulling was anything but new to them, but now wasn't the time. Instead she rocked forward and skimmed her lips over the body beneath her while Rachel pushed up into Quinn's hips. She placed tiny kisses all over her wife's beautiful face: from a slightly pinched forehead to a dimpled chin then soft cheek to soft cheek, subconsciously making a cross pattern. It felt like a benediction. Growing up she'd been taught to love the Lord her God with all her heart, with all her soul, with all her mind, and with all her strength. But her God wasn't that of the Church. It was Rachel. Rachel was the Absolute Being in Quinn's world. Rachel was her source, her savior, the one who taught Quinn she was better than what she'd been raised to be. And oh how Quinn had squandered that gift, that precious lesson. How could she have forgotten about this wonderful and blessed love? She didn't know, had no answer. The only things she knew right now was that she needed to worship every inch of the brunette's body and offer her own as a final sacrifice to their marriage in ultimate penance in the hope she'd be forgiven in time, forgiven for her failures. Forgiven for her shortcomings, yet not necessarily absolved of them. So, because she loved Rachel with all those things, her heart, soul, mind, and her strength, Quinn now needed to love Rachel with all her weakness, too. She owed her wife the very last of everything she had before the finality of their love set in. God, please let it be enough.

The mood changed when the brunette unknowingly broke through Quinn's plea and demanded another round of kisses. Quinn already wanted to cry in acceptance of their end, but took comfort in knowing she had one last chance to say goodbye the only way she really knew how.

Years of practice made finding the right angle all too easy.

"Yesssss."

Rachel's hiss of encouragement sizzled down Quinn's spine. Their centers melded together, the wetness between them almost erred Quinn from her goal. Rachel's overflowing passion burned into her skin while the touch itself elicited a shudder. Gooseflesh prickled her arms and back as she established a rhythm, slow and steady. Her abs ached with each body roll but seeing Rachel's expressions change from enthralled rapture to a brow pinched in a delicious torture, from greedy anticipation then to complete satisfaction, dulled the pain. Together they rode miniature waves of pleasure: first Rachel, then Quinn following with a shaky breath that sounded like her wife's name.

Rachel sighed and took her time unlocking her legs from the doctor's waist. Mild relief spread throughout Quinn with the release the pressure. Thighs of steel, that's what those were. Never once did she try to fight them, though. She'd happily stay trapped by them forever if she had the choice, but today her injured body couldn't handle it thanks to Santana's impersonation of Muhammad Ali.

A single finger traced the wrinkle Quinn knew was etched in her forehead.

"Okay?" Rachel asked.

Ruefully she smiled, falling in love with the familiarity that was breaking her heart. "Okay."

That finger stroked her nose then abandoned her face and headed south and, joined by another, pressed directly on her clit. She bucked then dropped her head to Rachel's chest.

The body under hers shook with amusement. "Okay, huh?"

She tried to answer but one of those dexterous fingers teased up and down while Rachel's other hand gripped Quinn's thigh and spread her legs for more space. Every nerve in her body tingled and she moaned into the stillness of the room. Belatedly she realized their children were upstairs and did not, ever, need to see her and Rachel like this. Her teeth clamped onto her lower lip so as not to utter another sound. When Rachel slid inside her, Quinn bit down harder in her need for more, her need for her wife to get as deep as she could.

"More." Please, always. Always more.

Carefully withdrawing despite Quinn's whimper of distress, the brunette maneuvered their bodies on the living room floor. Rachel sat back on her haunches for Quinn to kneel astride her with desperate arms around flexing shoulders and one hand woven in the damp, dark hair at the back of her neck as the shorter woman wound an arm about the blonde's waist. Back inside went those fingers and she mewled, letting Rachel take over. Quinn could give her this, could hand over the last of her control as her wife filled her again and again with impudent slowness. Their mouths met and their tongues kept time with the thrusts and the rocking of their bodies. Quinn lost herself in the intoxicating flavor of the kiss, helpless against the persuasions of Rachel's fingers and lips until their passion mounted and she had to break away, panting her approaching release with gasping caws.

"Oh–Rach–"

Full lips closed over hers, gently at first, then with gathering passion as the digits within her curled and the pad of Rachel's thumb circled her clit. A warm cheek rested against Quinn's and Rachel drew a deep breath as if taking in her very essence. "That's it, Quinn. Come on, let go."

One last time, Rachel shattered Quinn from inside.

Wind rattled the laminated ballistic glass of the windows, its howl muted by the material's insulating features. Only heavy breathing sounded in the dampened silence of the living room. Convulsions wracked the blonde's form, making no accommodation for her age or emotional exhaustion. She was shaking like the first time, buzzed on jungle juice and a few tokes of pot, but drunk on Rachel in the cramped backseat of her car. She couldn't help her mouth curving into a satisfied smile.

Rachel returned it. Her lips, still swollen from their passion, were slightly parted and her tan cheeks faintly flushed. Yet her image soon blurred behind the veil of tears gathering in Quinn's eyes.

She couldn't find words. They were all talked out and there was nothing that would change their path. Nothing that would redirect them down an easier road. Then again, their road had never been easy. Instead she lowered her head and kissed her wife. Maybe her lips could speak without talking. She guided Rachel to sit on the couch while she stayed on her knees. The brunette tried to bring her along but Quinn wasn't budging. She took Rachel's mouth slowly, pushing her to lean back then skimmed from her mouth to her throat and down to her breasts and stomach. Then she brushed Rachel's navel with her tongue and traveled lower. The jut of hipbones interrupted her journey but, like she had when seeing the sunken outlines of her wife's ribcage, she refused to dwell on them. The evidence that Rachel had been so depressed as to drop fifteen or so pounds stared her in the face, and Quinn hated herself for it. On someone else, that may not seem like much weight at all. On someone so petite as her wife, unintentionally losing fifteen pounds so quickly was teetering on the verge of unhealthy. But did nothing to take away from the loveliness before her.

"You're beautiful," she whispered, her voice thin and ragged.

Rachel's hand swept through her hair and Quinn could see the objection forming. She nipped it in the bud, so to speak. Her teeth clipped at tender flesh and Rachel yelped in shock. The doctor soothed her lips over the throbbing skin, working to open her wife's legs wider. She was not denied as the diva relaxed and let Quinn do with her as she would.

Quinn steadied herself, looking at Rachel in the most intimate possible way. She closed her eyes as her hot breath rifled through the small strip of slightly coarse black hair, preened and primed—as Rachel once joked. Faced with the pulsating center of her wife's pleasure, Quinn wished she had the patience to stay longer and admire the view but it wasn't her gaze she wanted on Rachel. Dipping her chin downward, she leaned closer to inhale something better than vanilla scented lotion. Her nostrils flared and she was through taking her time. In mere seconds, her tastebuds met with a flavor so familiar, so perfect. She flattened her tongue and licked up and down, countering the rhythm of searching hips.

Rachel bent her leg, her right foot planted firmly on the couch, giving the blonde more room. She took it, tilting her head to coerce fleshy lips into her mouth, slipping her tongue between flushed, puffy folds that parted so very easily.

Invisible figure eights decorated Rachel's legs from her knee caps, which Quinn knew were ticklish, up to where her thighs met her hips, which were equally responsive, but not in a cute, funny way. Although, she did giggle at the singer's squeal when Quinn scraped her thumbnail at the sensitive juncture. Both woman groaned as a long, slim finger entered Rachel. Quinn loved that the further in she pushed, the more wetness leaked out onto her hand. The air was full of pitiful whimpers and she added another finger, closing her eyes at the sensation. Nothing could ever top this. Being inside the woman she loved was as close as she would ever get to Heaven.

A hand knotted in blonde hair and Quinn looked up to stare into mesmerizing dark orbs. Black and wide, Rachel's eyes pleaded at her in a sweet sort of agony and her hips set a demanding pace. The doctor surged forward and sealed her mouth around the hardened bud throbbing against her lips, locking onto her wife and meeting the tempo they set. They rocked liked this, glued together by sweat and sex for a few moments longer before their rhythm quickened and Quinn's fingers slid deeper, bumping the spongy place within and making that famous voice fill the room. Short nails scraped at her shoulders while Quinn broke her hold on Rachel's clit. Her long fingers glided in and out with urgency, but soon she felt Rachel clenching in ecstasy and she slowed her thrusts, dragging it out as the woman hovered dangerously on the brink of climax.

"Q-Quinn, don't stop. I need—you have to—"

"I know, baby." She straightened on her knees and pushed more firmly into Rachel who threw her head back in surprise, tightening every hold she had on Quinn. The blonde rocked forward, forcing her wife to take it harder like she'd said she wanted this morning, harder like maybe something about this last time had to hurt physically, too. Quinn pounded into Rachel with everything she had. Every hope or dream, every fear and insecurity, her regret and her love, and each and every piece of herself she had left was given and locked inside as those beautiful features tensed and Rachel fell over the edge, coming hard and without a sound.

"I love you," Quinn said, striving to appear calm though her body trembled with a tangle of emotions unnameable.

Rachel started crying.

And she was shaking, very literally shaking.

Quinn pulled out as gently as possible and guided her to lie down on the couch. Not really thinking, she lay down and held on to her wife covering them for one final night under their wedding quilt. Her hands cupped teary cheeks and she pressed her lips against a worried and scrunched forehead. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She repeated the apology as she desperately kissed every centimeter of Rachel's face. It was futile, she knew, but it was sincere. "I'm so sorry for everything, Rach."

After awhile, the quakes dwindled and Quinn's arms began loosening out of rational, not because she wanted to let go. But Rachel wouldn't allow it. Brown eyes still closed, the brunette all but clawed at fair skin in effort to pull her near. Scooting closer and molding her naked body against the smaller, shuddering frame, Quinn held her as close as physically possible, wishing they could just fuse into one entity. Her hand slid down Rachel's arm until their fingers laced and another round of sobs shook the dark haired beauty as Quinn's pinky looped around her ring finger.

"It'll be okay. This time it'll be okay." Rachel said gently, hot breath stirring blonde hair. Little reassurance existed in that fractured voice, but Quinn let it go, even as it cracked against her ear. "Okay?"

She cleared her throat, swallowing her own tears. How she wanted to hit herself for everything that would happen in the morning. She just made everything worse. Harder than it already was. She kissed Rachel again, memorizing the feel and taste of those lips to carry with her for the rest of her days. "Okay," she nodded, sniffling. Hazel and brown eyes closed as she stroked her nose along her wife's, easily recalling the innocent and sweet gesture from better times, then Quinn repeated the lie she knew neither believed but each wished they could. "Okay."


End file.
